


Promises

by ikknowplaces



Series: Promises [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 15 years old me is thriving, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Developing Friendships, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, I don't know what I'm doing, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, No Incest, They don't know what they're doing, pissed off strangers to maybe we can be friends, very soft at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-10-06 12:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20506850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikknowplaces/pseuds/ikknowplaces
Summary: Greek mythology/Percy Jackson AU. Brienne, daughter of a minor God was cursed to stay in her island forever, the rest of her people banished. Jaime, who happens to be the son of the God who cursed her, crashes in Tarth, and makes a promise.





	1. Cursed

**Author's Note:**

> this my first ever jaime/brienne fic, an au most of all, and my first time writing a multi chapters fic, so feedback/comments are really welcomed!
> 
> for plot purposes that i spent hours struggling with- cersei is an older sister, and all the children aren't jaime's. jaime is roughly brienne's age, and although tywin doesn't sit on the iron throne, he's the real ruler of the seven kingdoms.
> 
> i hope you'll like this!

Jaime doesn't remember his argument with Cersei. He doesn't remember the words, the claims, the threats. He doesn't even remember how it started or what caused it. All he remembers is standing in an overly red room, crimson and gold lions all around him, suffocating him. He remembers his sister's scream too, before being launched into the sky.

He wakes up in midair. His eyes flutter and he groans, hugging himself. It's too cold here, and his golden hand isn't making anything better. The wind whips his face, his back, his chest, like glass daggers. It penetrates through his velvet tunic and his breeches as well. It's never this windy in King's Landing during the summer- not this cold either. Someone should close the window.

His eyes flow open. The ground is a beautiful shinning, blue surface, blinding him. He screams. Questions and curses, his sister's name. More curses. _I'm falling. Where am I? I'm falling._

Only then he realizes he must have passed out, from the cold and the altitude. How many miles has he passed? His eyes tear off from the sea- his death- to see a white-yellow trail. It's so narrow he can cover it with two fingers. Sand, and a circle of trees. An island.

He spreads his arms and turns around. If the situation wasn't so unimaginable, he might have enjoyed it. It feels like dancing. He would have told the sky-  _ might I have this dance, my lady?  _ And the sun would go down, blushing.

He would have wiped the smile off his face if he had one. There is nothing as far as he can see, nothing but blue against blue. How far away has his sister sent him? He hopes her aim sent him high through the clouds. The last thing he wants is the entire realm, Winterfell to Dorne, to see a Lannister shooting star. The watery death is inching closer, the sand calling him.

This will not be the end of his story, he decides. No knight dressed in white, sitting in his chair will snicker while writing "Died crashing face-front into the sand of any island in the middle of nowhere," on his page, between a roaring lion and a white shield. No, that will no be his ending.

_ But what can I do?  _ He has nothing to his person but his sword. To his surprise, it hasn't ripped off its scabbard during his flight. His damned hand is just weighing him down, most likely. A minute until he hits the sand, he estimates, if not less.

He wants to close his eyes, to forget his falling body, to forget this day. The water turns red, boiling, leaping above the water level. He's not in the air anymore, but in a dark throne room. There are screams outside, cries so hard he can hear them even within the old stones. A King with hair of silver and nails long as tallows lies to the throne's steps, drowned in blood. Jaime's white cloak is stained, as well as his sword. The King's desperate, demanding shouts are in his mind. _Burn them all,_ are his last words. Jaime takes a breath and promises:  _ I will never use fire again. _

He wishes he was a son of Hephaestus, so he could maneuver some half-built helicopter, or maybe a son of Ares; some of them could shapeshift. But no, he was a son of Zeus- with no ability to fly.

So Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, who hasn't dared to make the tiniest flicker of light from his finger since the day he killed his pyromaniac King, bursts into flames. They tinkle his skin, and his lungs are burning. This time he doesn't give unconsciousness the satisfaction, however, and the world goes dark with a drop of his eyelids.

His last thought is_: I wonder if a fire-proof man can die from burning._ He hasn't practiced his powers since Aerys, even a candle was enough to make him go away inside, or leave the room completely. When he was younger, a lifetime ago, his Father brought him a teacher from across the world to teach him how to control his powers. With his everlasting frown, his Father told him that although he isn't pleased with the fact that he can control fire, he might as well not shame his family.

He doesn't know how close he is to the ground now, or how much fire he has cast around him. He must be so engulfed no one would take him for a person, a living thing. The sound of the crash is muffled by the layers of fire around his entire body. He only feels his limbs hitting the ground, the air being knocked from his chest with the impact. He's still now, front-face in the sand. He rolls to his back, every bone screaming in pain. Then there's only darkness.

The first thing Jaime hears other than the ringing in his ears the fire cracking around him is “You ruined my dining table!"

He blinks and looks up, trying to adjust to the bright sun above him with the pain still behind his eyes.  _ He's alive. _ A woman stands at the edge of the crater, her face red and furious. Even from that height, he can tell she’s taller than him, and bigger as well. She wears a blue tunic, darker than the waters he almost crashed into, with silver stars decorating the collar and a pair of black breeches. The breeze blows her thin blonde hair from her shoulders and strangely enough- she’s barefoot.

He looks to his right to see the remains of shattered white wood burning on the sand along with what appears to be a broken vase of pink flowers. Then he looks back to the woman in front of him, still glaring because he ruined her Olympus-level-of-perfect lunch.  _ Seriously?  _ The lack of heat is disturbing at first, and- _I'm not on fire anymore._ The breeze cools him so much he wants to push his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around himself. He pushes the urge away.

"Oh, I’m sorry! I just got kicked out from my castle, burst into flames, crash-landed here and barely survived. But let’s talk about your  _ dining table _ .” This woman gave him no time to appreciate the fact that he's alive, he grimaces, his nose full of smoke.  _ What's another promise to break? _

Ignoring the pain in his head, he puts his good hand on the sand and stumbles to his feet. Half of his shirt is burnt with parts of his leather breeches too. Aside from the crater he is standing in, there is a smaller one a few meters away, and flames- everywhere.

“Who puts a table on a beach where innocent sons of gods can crush into?  _ Who does that? _ ”

The woman stares at him, something calculating in her eyes. “The last word to describe you is  _ innocent _ ,” she spits out, and Jaime’s already spinning head tries to understand her meaning. Before he can ask, she takes a step forward and clenches her fists. He thinks she’s about to slide down and punch him in the face.

Instead, she looks up. “ _ Really?! _ ” she screams at the sky, now empty of handsome people falling out of them. “Really, Zeus? Haven’t I suffered enough by this curse?! Poseidon, Hephaestus, do you have no shame?”

Jaime pats the ashes and sand away from what is left of his clothes, very aware of the fact that one of the Gods she mentioned is his own Father. “I don’t think he can hear you, you know? Being the God of all Westeros and everything. He barely hears my own-”

“Show yourself if you have courage!” she continues, completely ignoring his presence. “Is it not bad enough I’m trapped here? Is it not bad enough you exiled all of my people? You bring me this- this  _ Kingslayer _ ? It is not funny!”

Now it's Jaime’s turn to be angry. “Hey, wench,” he calls, annoyed by this lady and whoever she thinks she is to accuse him like that a minute after setting her eyes on him. “I’m right here you know.”

Her attention switches to him now, grinding her teeth as she marches down the crater. She catches Jaime’s left arm with an iron grip and begins to walk him towards the coast. “Do  _ not _ call me that and get off my island!”

That, he’s more than happy to do. He shakes her hand away from him and follows her lead, hopefully to a whole armada of ships to take him back to King’s Landing. Only, there aren’t any people around. There aren’t even  _ sounds _ of people around.

A few steps ahead of him, which is quite a lot with her huge legs, the woman stops and takes a look around, raising her arms at the ruins. “Look at this. It was a peaceful beach!”

Jaime can’t help but roll his eyes. “Yes, I’m very sorry I ruined your beach. I should have crashed on any other island. Wait- there are none around!”

She growls and drags him by the arm again. Only when they’re halfway up, he realizes they’re on a cliff. Not a very high one like the Rock, but he can see the whole ocean ahead of him.

It’s odd, he had never seen such colors. The blue is deeper than any shade he knew, and richer too. He sneaks a glance at the woman, still looking like sour milk, and her eyes are the same. They remind him of sapphires.

As they climb, he turns around, and there's a great stone-built castle far away, on the edge of the island. Its stones are black and look worn out and old, as if it’s about to crumble. It reminds him of King’s Landing and the Red Keep, almost a million years old, though the castle’s beauty didn’t drop a bit before the age of the Targaryen Kings, during, or after. A whole forest covers the rest of the island, so dense the other side of the shore is hidden.  _ No houses, _ it what strikes Jaime the most.  _ Nothing but the castle. _

At the top- he doesn’t even realize when they reach it- the woman claps her hands and takes a deep breath, somehow almost calm since he crashed here. “Alright, say you want to leave.”

“What?” His head still hurts from the fall, and he doesn’t have the energy to try and understand how is he supposed to leave while being that high off the ground.

“Surely you have other places to be,” she explains to him with a not so patient look on her face, like he’s a child. “Tell me you want to leave.”

A breeze comes, brushing through his hair, and he smells something sweet. Her perfume, perhaps. It doesn’t matter. “I want to leave…”

“Tarth,” she finishes for him. “Say it three times.  _ I want to leave Tarth _ .”

He knows that name. He heard that name before, from his Father or from subjects  _ whispering _ about the actions of his Father. “Tarth? Then you’re…”

“It does not matter,” she cuts him, and suddenly he can’t bear to look at her anymore without his Father interrupting and her screams in his mind. “Say you want to leave.”

He can’t. Not without letting her know. “You’re Brienne.”

It comes almost as a whisper, and another gust of wind hits them. Redness spreads across the woman’s-  _ Brienne’s _ face- and the coldness does nothing to hide it. Her gaze falls to the hard ground for a moment, before she turns him to the ocean.

Her hands are firm on his shoulders. He wants to listen, wants to get away, but he can only see the image of a girl kneeling on the burning sand, tears streaming down her face. He can hear her sobs and her Father’s pleading, and the satisfaction on his own Father’s eyes. "Say you want to leave."

So he does. Three times, as she told him, he says he wants to leave the island his Father uses to scare minor deities or other somewhat rambunctious godly people with. The air is full of salt as he gazes down the breathtaking waves crushing far below him. He should be happy to return to his Father, even if he’s a constant pain in his ass, and to his sister, even if she’d the one who caused him to end up here.

Yet, his heart feels heavy, and his stomach nauseous to a surprising degree. Brienne, however, is the complete opposite. “Great,” she says, “A raft will arrive soon to take you… wherever you wish to go.”

Her voice is still as stone, as her blue eyes, but he nearly flinches at the hatred beneath.  _ Why do I care? _

They wait on the cliff for five minutes, then ten, then twenty. A raft never appears, nor a galley, nor a few logs tied together with a rope and a sheet for a sail. As time flows by, he hears Brienne stomping her foot on the ground in impatience. He imagines her hands curling into fists, her teeth grinding. She must want to push him off to the water, and he won't be able to save himself this time. 

_ It’s not my fault, _ he thinks at that, with bitterness. He may feel sorry for her, may pity her, but he will not take responsibility for an act he didn’t commit.  _ And she won’t dare to raise a hand on me. _

Brienne interrupts his thought with a loud groan and storms down the cliff, muttering names of Gods and with a string of curses. She’s fast, and with the size of her steps, she’d already well ahead while he's still standing on the top. He rushes to her, trying not to slip as he ascends.

“What was that about?” he asks once he’s close enough to her.

“The raft didn’t come,” she says, leaving clouds of sands behind, as if that explains everything, and  _ Gods, _ she might just punch him this time.

He stops and watches her walk away towards the woods, trying to understand- not for the first time in the last hour- what the hell she means. Is he doomed to stay on Tarth forever?

“What am I supposed to do now?” he throws his arms up to the ocean, the neverending coast, and the woods so thick he can’t see an inch into.

“Starve for all I care!” she shouts back without looking back and disappears between the trees.

Alone, he can only hear the wind and the tide, and when they calm and fade, everything is suddenly too quiet without Brienne's screams. The fire had gone out, the crater slowly filling up, the broken vase shines in the sunlight and the edges of the white wooden table have blackened. He curses and kicks the sand, sending it flying, before he turns to the sea and points. "Fuck you, raft!"

** ─ **

Brienne takes the long way to Evenfall, the one with broken wood, muddy ground, small lakes, clusters of rocks, slopes and hills, and even a small stream. Every step embroidered with fury, until her boots are brown with dirt, her ankles soaked, and her hands are red from all the thick branches she grabs.

Despite all her efforts, his face keeps flashing in her mind as she makes it to the castle. _ _ Her Father would have been disappointed to see her like this, his noble daughter jumping down slippery stones, tramping through the forest like it’s a battlefield, upset about a man. But he isn’t just a man.  _ A Kingslayer, they brought me. A Lannister. _ The mere thought makes her want to scream again. Not only that she has to wake up every day to the father's curse, the Gods sent her the son now, to torment her more. 

By the time she reaches Evenfall, sweat roll down her forehead, down her arms, and beneath her tunic. She pushes the great door open and the silence she has gotten used to hits her like winter rain to her face. She kicks her boots at the entrance with short breath and watches as the water spirits carry them away. Instead of yelling at them to leave, she takes her tunic off as well, pushes down her breeches, and takes the spiral steps to the baths below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> i'm on [tumblr.](https://ikknowplaces.tumblr.com/)


	2. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a long, long two weeks of silence. jaime is losing his mind. brienne is angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again and welcome to chapter two! i'm actually surprised it took me only a week to update this fic. it was absolutely a RIDE to write. i've learned a lot about what's that to write 4500 words of no dialog. kinda lost my own mind during the whole process. but it was fun! so- i hope you'll enjoy jaime and brienne contemplating on their poors faiths in this chapter (the next one has one of my favorite scenes so far)!

Jaime spends the first hours after Brienne's grand exit into the woods staring at the ocean. His burnt clothes itch, the sand gets between everywhere, but the sun isn't too harsh against his skin, the wind is a blissful haven from the heat, and the waters in front of him are just beautiful.

Still, a calming sight isn't enough to cease his anger. If it was- he wouldn't be a Lannister. The waves flood the soaked ground and go, and they remind him of Brienne, which only irritates him more. _ Stupid girl on a stupid island. _ If the woods had a door, she would have slammed it shut. _Telling me to starve._

In truth, she isn't to blame for her anger. His Father did imprison her, and if she greeted him with a broad grin and a cup of ale he would have suspected her from the start. 

It seems unreal to him, that he's in Tarth, the island his Father boasts about so much. More ironically, that he's stuck here too, with no way to return. It must be a jape between Tywin and his sister, for sure, and they're sharing it over a cup of wine as he sits in the sand. Perhaps Tywin is scowling Cersei at these moments, gazing at her with that disapproving, untwisting mouth, the gold spots in his eyes flashing.

Jaime doesn't remember the exact day his Father cast his curse on Brienne, but he does remember the day her father, Lord Selwyn came to visit. It was a warm, sunny day in King's Landing, and he was practicing with Ser Arthur at the gardens. The heels of his boots slid on the polished marble floor as he blocked Ser Arthur's attack, and the white knight smiled.

The sound of hooves clacking on the road made him glace away and Arthur knocked him off his feet with a flat strike to his thigh. He expected to be scowled by the Sword of the Morning, but Arthur looked away too. 

A dozen riders marched through the gardens, lightly armored with only protection to their shoulders and knees in silver steel that glimmer in the sun. One of them carried quartered arms of red and azure, with suns and crescent moons. Jaime ran dozens of sigils in his head, from the North to the Stormlands, the Reach and Dorne. He didn't recognize it.

The household knights were nothing compared to their lord, riding ahead of them. He was tall, the tallest lord he has ever seen, and big as well. Not from fat, perhaps, but his shoulders were broad, his arms thick and his legs just as long. White-blonde hair flowed to the collar of his dark indigo tunic, covered in stars, and his cape whirled behind. A few wide-eyed ladies clenched their skirts and their little lordings' arms as the group rode through the paths of the gardens, towards the Red Keep.

He saw lord Selwyn leave as well, red-faced with anger, marching from beneath the steps of the Iron Throne to the Keep's gate. His Father was standing next to the King, and no muscle moved in his face. At the time, he was only his Master of War, but Tywin Lannister was growing to be more powerful than the King himself, turning him to a mere puppet keeping the Throne warm. Now, with Joffery sitting on the Iron Throne- it was no secret who is the real King of the Seven Kingdoms.

The thought of his Father in such power makes Jaime sick. To both Gods and men, he was on the blink of becoming a man when Lord Selwyn came to court, near a century older than Joffery. His heart clenches. Brienne must have been younger than him at the time.

He lets out a frustrated groan. Dewling in the past will get him nowhere. He stands up, shakes the sand away, and walks towards the cliff again.

Brienne told him the raft didn't come, but he has too much time to pass and nothing to lose, so he faces the ocean again, closes his eyes and says he wants to leave. The raft doesn't appear, and the waves are like mocking him. He can hear them saying: _ you need her here, idiot. _

He decides to walk along the shore. His boots get splashed and his ankles wet, but it's an enjoyable feeling, more or less. He used to go swimming with Cersei and Tyrion a lot when they were younger, in Casterly Rock, although the ocean of his home isn't half as beautiful as this sapphire sea. It seems too magical to be real: the waves are perfect in height, the tide's pull is delicate, and the shells he steps beside are crystalized, glimmering in shades of white and blue.

Cersei must be celebrating. The lack of her annoying little Brother must be the happiest thing to happen to her since Robert was killed on his hunting accident, thought Jaime doesn't believe Cersei didn't have a hand in it. Without him to question her decisions, refuse her demands to take Riverrun, and try and tear Tommen and what is left of Joffery from her- by now the Throne room has turned to a feast. Jaime lets the anger flood him once again, for a moment.

He misses Tyrion the most. His little Brother has always been the clever one. When Jaime wasn't allowed to practice sword fighting before his reading and writing lessons were done, Tyrion was swallowing books at half of Jaime's age as if he was born at the Citadel. He would have known what to do, if not- he would have kept Jaime some company at best. He would have laughed too, that the only person on this island hates Jaime's guts.

He wanders until all of his thoughts run dry in his mind, and his footsteps disappear and wash away behind him. His stomach grumbles. He glances at the ocean, shining so brightly in the sunlight. He won't break his vow again, not even for eating. He turns around- the crater has vanished from sight. As small as the island is, he doesn't wish to get lost, and retrieves.

─

Brienne gets out of the bathhouse with a sigh, the steam surrounding her flowing to the corridor at the entrance. Her hair is plastered to her face, pushed over one shoulder. Water runs down her arms and legs as she passes behind the main hall and climbs the steps to her room. 

In the earlier years after she was cursed, she would never have allowed herself to set a foot outside the baths dressed in only a towel, but as the years passed her patience towards lady-like expectations of her drew short, and she began to break them one by one. She is alone here, after all. 

Inside her room, she unwraps the towel from around her and scrubs her skin until all she can think about is the sensation on her reddening flesh. She brushes her hair, dons clean clothes, and goes down to the kitchens to resume her interrupted lunch.

The water spirits are already there when she arrives. The invisible little helpers are the only thing that stayed after Lord Lannister cast his curse on her. She remembers a day when she came to the kitchens choking on her sobs, her pretty dress ruined and bloody from the lambs Ser Goodwin made her slaughter, to make her ready for battle, he said. The two joined rooms were full of people, taking out freshly baked pastries from the ovens, mixing onion and carrots soups, roasting meat and eggs and boiling wine. 

The smells would have made her mouth water, if she could breathe them at all. One of the kitchen ladies, a tall woman in her Father's age with long, pretty chestnut hair clicked her tongue in dismay and crunched down to stroke Brienne's hair, whispering calming words to her. She gave her a sugared plum and Brienne ceased to cry.

It's one of the many things Brienne is grateful for- she doesn't have to kill any more animals. The counter is already set with half a dozen vegetables, a loaf of bread, cheese, and some fruits for dessert. A spirit is cutting a section of meat into smaller pieces while Brienne washes the vegetables. Three plates, silverware and a glass cup float outside as she cuts a large tomato. Another thing she often thanks to, her livestock are always healthy and produce enough offsprings as well. Her seeds in the garden never fail to grow, the trees are never sick, her crops never wither.

Her table waits at the Great Hall, her lunch set on top of a white cloth embroidered with gold and blue. She thinks of her burnt one at the beach, the flames and the crater and the Lannister inside of it. It fills her stomach with weariness. She swallows it down.

She doesn't want to think about Lannister, the Kingslayer, in truth, but he keeps invading her thoughts as she goes through her lunch, chewing on a piece of meat, popping a cucumber into her mouth or tearing a handful of bread. 

She always treated the men who came to Tarth as courtly as it was expected of her, greeting them and offering them a place in Evenfall, as guest rights bind her. A very few of them were confused enough to keep their mouths shut and let her take the lead. She gave the others who were angry from the beginning cold politeness and nothing more. She can count the number of times the raft didn't come at once with both of her hands, but it wasn't the reason for her outburst. It was _ him._

She finishes her meal, letting the spirits carry the dishes away, and continues as if it was another day. 

First, she goes to her Father's library. It is one of the biggest chambers in Evenfall, second to the Great Hall, as big as her Father's bedchamber. There is a fireplace next to the door, windows on one side of the room from almost floor to ceiling, three rich olive green couches with golden pearls sewn on them around a low oak table, and a great book stand covering the entire wall in front of the entrance, parted with seven shelves. She picks up the book she read yesterday, and tens of other days before, and curls her legs from under her on the couch, her back facing the door.

By the time the sun begins to set, painting the summer Stormland sky in hues of deep red, orange, and pink, Brienne has gone outside to the garden hidden behind Evenfall. She has already tended it in the morning after she broke her fast, as always, but she checks some of the crops again and wanders between the rows of trees, waiting for dusk to end. 

She settles at her usual spot, at the entrance to the garden, just when the path of smooth stones she put ends. The evening wind blows on her face as she leans back on her elbows and closes her eyes, allowing her shoulders to drop and her muscles to relax. The grass is soft beneath her palms and the air is salty as always. 

Over the hundreds of years, Brienne developed a rather sixth sense. She knows when the sun sets and rises, how rough the Sapphire Isle is today, how heavy the rain will be. She can tell if someone has landed on Tarth as well, though that can take her a couple of hours to realize. The Kingslayer is the first one in a while to catch her off guard.

So when she opens her eyes, the Nightfall Lillies are in full bloom. They're breathtaking, turquoise flowers shining in the moonlight, only visible when the last ray of sunlight has gone out. Fireflies dance around them, swaying in the breeze, adding to their glowing light. The cloudless sky gives way to dozens of stars, and all at once her garden is full of magic.

She goes to sleep with her stomach full of cherry pie and a glass of warm milk, in her old room of over a thousand years. She has many unpleasant memories from it- crying in front of her looking-glass after Ronnet and his rose, yelling at her handmaidens that she won't go to the Great Hall again and forcing down tears when they pushed her into a gown. The first night without Galladon to read her a bedtime story. Still, she can't separate herself from it. 

She hasn't moved the furniture, either. Her mahogany wardrobe still stands by the door, its golden carvings faded, besides a low drawer that spreads on almost all of the wall. The dolls she and Galladon used to play with sit there, a silver-haired princess with purple eyes next to a kissed by fire lady in a grey fur dress, a white knight with olive skin and a lord dressed in green with flowers on his cloak. 

Brienne changes into a thin wool nightgown, pulls back the stars-and-moons covers and falls asleep on her featherbed.

─ 

Jaime wakes up on cold, hard ground. The world is alive around him, birds singing in the daylight, the rustle of the stream lake nearby. He rolls to his back and groans, covering his eyes.

He had two options yesterday, when the sun started to set: take shelter in the woods or stay on the beach. It didn't take much time to choose. The crater was filled to the top, and sand is worse than muddy ground. He glanced at the ocean one last time- still no magical raft- and headed towards the woods.

Hunting was more Robert's favorite activity than his. Whenever King's Landing seemed to have the slightest of problem, or when his Sister went into labor, the King would demand a group to escort him into the forest. Jaime fought with Ser Arthur on the Kingswood, but his experience with forests ends there. He walked east, thinking about how Brienne would have kicked him if he shows up in the castle, and that he doesn't want to sleep in her castle anyway.

The rock he slept on scratches his hands as he gets up. It's the flattest one he found, almost like a bed. Morning dew has fallen on him, rolling on his skin where his clothes are burnt. The fire he lighted with two rocks and a handful of dry twigs has gone out, and the chill cuts to his bones. 

He gets up slowly, stretching out his clenched muscles. The trees are a heavy screen of branches and leaves, barely allowing any sun in.

He washes his face in the stream and breaks his fast same as he did last night, over apricots and apples and other strange fruit he has never seen. Maybe the entire island is magical. He hasn't seen any animals, to his luck during the night, nothing but butterflies, dragonflies around the lake, and colorful little birds.

He takes a deep breath. _ At least I'm still alive. _ His sword is laid on the ground, gold scabbard and ruby red straps. He has never been in a situation he wasn't prepared to. Everything could be solved with a swift swing of a sword, even Aerys Targaryen. Now, it was a useless thing, tugging at his waist as he ties it into place.

His golden hand comes into view, startling him. He has forgotten about it at night and after Brienne yelled at him for ruining her table too. Fatigue washes over him as if he hasn't rested a minute. Maybe he wasn't prepared for every situation.

At the cliff, he wishes again. _ I want to leave Tarth. _He wishes for King's Landing too, even if it brings him more torment than joy. 

He returns to his rocky bed with a heavy feeling in his chest, like he's being crushed. The one good thing about King's Landing is that it is always full of people- and duties as well. As Lord Commander, he always has tasks to give to his sworn Brothers, even if he loathes them. _ Meryn Trant and Boros Blount- what happened to the days of Arthur Dayne and Prince Lewyn Martell? _ The real loss of the Rebellion wasn't the King or Prince Rhaegar, but his Brothers, the ones he chose for love instead of blood.

_This place is too quiet, _ he realizes. _Too empty. _At King's Landing, he's only alone when he sleeps, and even that has gotten difficult to achieve. When he's not guarding Joffery's door or staring at the canopy after another nightmare full of wildfire, half a million people are a reminder beneath the Red Keep. There is always someone awake nearby, working, eating and drinking, dancing and laughing. Fucking. Breathing. _Anything._

A rustle of leaves between the undergrowth breaks his chain of thoughts, bringing him into this lonely reality, and Jaime stumbles to his feet, drawing his sword.

It's stupid, he knows, to unsheath his sword at a mere sound. It can be a great beast who sensed his smell, or a rabbit hopping through the bushes. 

The last thing he expects to see is Brienne. She stands boldly as ever, dressed in a thin, sea-green overtunic that reaches her knees and a pair of black breeches. She eyes him from head to toe, taking in his ruined clothes. When she gets to his sword, pointing right to her chest, a hint of a smile grows on her face. _ Mocking smile._

Brienne forgets it in a heartbeat, switching to the stone-hard, unreadable expression on her face. "Guest rights bind me to take you to Evenfall. The castle," she announces, sounding like a summer green page. She glances to the side, and shifts her weight from one leg to the other, crushing some of the dirt under her boots. She settles some words, at last, and they come almost as a whisper. "Come with me."

That he expected even less. His eyes narrow, searching for a hint of falsehood in her words; she can lure him to a trap underneath the ground, or attack him on the way to her castle. He is the one with a sword, though, and the longer he stares into her sapphire eyes, the more he realizes- she is no liar. 

He breaks his stance, releasing his sore muscles from their combat-ready state, and nods. Brienne's shoulders seem to drop at his agreement. She glances at his sword once again as he sheaths it. For a moment he thinks she might be studying it, its length and weight, the delicate twists in the golden hilt.

She gathers herself quickly enough, and before he can take a second step forward, she already turned her back to him, leading the way. Her hands are held tightly together behind her back and he catches her thumbs caressing before she lets go. He loosens the grip on his sword, too. 

The walk to Evenfall is shorter than he imagined it would be, and unchanging as well. Crowded palms trees, crushed leaves on tough ground, small streams leading to a pool here and there. His thoughts drift to Brienne's words from the day before. _ Exiled all my people._

He's about to ask when they arrive at a clearing, the castle towering right before them._ A courtyard, not a clearing, _ he realizes, and turns around. The forest ends in a sharp cut and in front of him there's a path leading to the stone castle, short trimmed lawn and two great fountains at each side of the path, letting out no water.

It's strangely empty, nothing like King's Landing or Casterly Rock. A dozen questions burn his mind, but Brienne hurries up the steps leading to a wooden gate. It opens on its own- _ another question _ \- and they pass through the wall, beneath two bridges. Another doorway opens and for a moment his heart stops beating.

It's the Great Hall, he knows, though it's half the size of the Great Hall in the Red Keep. A blue carpet with red edges stretches from the entrance beneath their feet to a single stone seat, Selwyn's own throne. There is no staircase leading to it, nor a dais to rise it. Behind, three banners of Tarth's sigil hang and benches are pressed against the walls. 

"I assume you know better than to abuse your guest rights," Brienne interrupts his musing, holding his eyes with that icy cold gaze. "Your room is on the west side of the second floor. Last from the entrance."

All the words disappear from his mind. What can he do? _ Thank her? Apologize? _Instead, he nods, and Brienne continues to stare at him with those unforgiving eyes. _She is done with me, _ he thinks, and goes to find his room, feeling like a lion with its tail tucked between his legs.

He climbs the wide steps and paces along the balcony of the second floor, overlooking Evenfall Hall and the castle's gate, just in time to see Brienne disappear into one of the passageways.

His room is easy enough to find, at the end of the corridor, the fifth one in a row. It's much smaller than any room he has ever had in the Red Keep and Casterly Rock, with plain furniture as well: a thin, blue rug, a narrow cabinet, a featherbed made of worn-out wood with a chest at the footboard. Jaime walks towards it in the morning light coming from the two windows on the stone wall. A dark green tunic and a pair of breeches are laid folded on it, along with a new belt for his sword. He takes off his ruined clothes and walks to the joined room, hoping to wash with a bucket of water.

A steaming bath waits for him there, with a bar of soap and a brush set on the floor. There is a towel on the basin too, fresh and clean. He snaps out of the shock. _ Maybe I should have thanked her. _

Jaime has been grateful for a bath only twice in his life so far. The first time was after he slew Aerys, to wipe the blood of the Mad King off his hands. The second time was when he returned to King's Landing after spending over a year at the cells of Riverrun covered in mud and his own soil, and later with a festering stump as well. This is the third time, he decides as he lowers himself into the water.

He gets out after the water has turned cold, his muscles feeling less sore and his body a lot cleaner than before. He dons his new clothes, places his sword by the bed and goes down to thank Brienne for accepting him under her roof, for the clothes and the bath as well. 

Only, she isn't in the Great Hall, nor any of the hallways he slowly steps through. He can't find her during lunch or dinner either, because both of them appear in his chamber.

A fortnight passes. He baths and dines in his room every day. He doesn't share a single word with Brienne. He only catches glimpses of her during the day; she leaves through a door behind Selwyn's seat at the mornings and descends on a stairway in the evenings, almost at the same hours. Some days she turns left at the Hall and he sees her again only after the sun has set. On other times she is walking the castle, _ her _ castle, to places only she knows. At most days, he sees her.

_But she never sees me. _ It must be another magic of the island, he thinks. Whenever he is, Brienne seems to vanish from at once. He steps down a corridor connecting to the Hall for the hundred time, fingers tracing the old stone. He hates it, wandering inside Evenfall, like an unwanted guest, afraid of breathing, of being. But he won't be locked in his chamber all day.

He goes to the beach every day, if only to see something other of grey walls and empty rooms. He wishes and watches the waves, every day. The raft doesn't come.

By the time he gets back, there is a table near the end of the Hall, already set with a pretty lilac cloth and silverware. He considers leaning against the wall or sitting on one of the benches, waiting for Brienne to come. But to what use? She won't talk to him anyway, or just groan in disgust and leave. He glances up at the balcony. If her table is set, his should be too. 

─

She has never known silence could be this loud. Half a moon turned since he arrived and the Kingslayer is nowhere and everywhere. She sees him stalking the corridors, getting into chambers he has no business in being in. Her only haven are the water spirits bringing him food and baths and fresh clothes and the fact that her bedchamber is on the other side of Evenfall.

She sees him leaving almost every day. To the cliff, she knows, and he comes back red-faced and frustrated. She doesn't care.

─ 

He stumbles upon a particular room one day. It is larger than any of the chambers he has discovered, and richer. A thick, pale blue carpet covers the floor, with flowers embroidered into it with more colors than he can tell. There is a deep red couch and two smaller ones around a table, a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, a fireplace, and above it a window in the shape of half a circle, a big cutout in the wall, showing the courtyard and the dense forest. Suns and crescent moons follow along the curve, shinning in gold.

A shield with the arms of Tarth is pinned to the wall, next to another with a falling star above an elm tree on an orange sunset. He knows these arms, of course. They belong to Ser Duncan the Tall. There is a painting as well, of a young boy with a shock of straw blonde hair. He stands beside a shorter girl, his hand on her shoulder. If it wasn't for their heights, and the girl's full of freckles face, they'd look almost identical.

_Her Father's solar, _ he understands, _I shouldn't be here. _ He turns to leave when the door swings open. Brienne is about to step in when she lifts her head. She gasps when she sees him, her hand holding the doorknob so hard it turns white. The color has drained from her face.

He's taken back, too._ Shit. _ "Brienne, I'm-"

"Get out," she snarls through her teeth, cheeks flushed with red. For a moment there is only silence, as it has been for a fortnight, as his eyes dart across her face, meeting her storm-like blue ones. He wants to scream at her to say something, do something, kick him even. She only takes a deep breath, her hand shaking on the doorknob, and presses harder into him.

He bows his head and leaves, not meeting her eyes. She slams the door at his face without turning around, and he's alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!  
i'm on [tumblr](https://ikknowplaces.tumblr.com)


	3. Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Bath Scene, at last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helll again! this chapter was... very, very difficult for me to write. tip: never start a third chapter before you published the first two. editing was a nightmare.
> 
> anyway, this chapter was very emotional to write. i couldn't decide which pov i wanted it to be from, so around the middle there are 4 paragraphs in which the pov changes. i really wanted to capture both of their emotions, but i settled for jaime's pov at the end
> 
> i hope jaime's very quick change of feelings come across well. he feels very low speaking about aerys and what happened, but brienne being the angel she is drags him for that horrible feeling of hopelessness. it's like seeing a first ray of light after a long storm
> 
> i changed tywin from being aerys' hand to his master of law. it was getting me stuck
> 
> i'll spare you the math when it comes to their "human" and "godly" ages- brienne is about a 100 years old younger than jaime, but they're both 19
> 
> i hope you'll enjoy this chapter as much as i do. i recommed listening to [daylight](https://youtu.be/u9raS7-NisU) while reading it

Brienne sits inside the bath, soaking in the hot water, her arms lying along the stone edges. The bathhouse of Evenfall has been her haven for the last fortnight, the only place where her eyes don't meet the Kingslayer every other moment, the only place he hasn’t invaded yet.

Bound by the laws of hospitality, she has provided him with anything he needed. Clothes, blankets, meals and a bath to his room every evening- to spare his appearance in the Great Hall or the bathhouse- all with the help of the invisible water spirits. In truth, she doesn't care how comfortable he is, and more than often she wishes he was sleeping in a tent at the beach instead of under her roof. But laws are laws, and she follows them with silence.

She dreads the arrival of the raft that will take him far, far away from her, and she will finally be rid of him. The past fortnight has been a nightmare, watching him pace the Evenfall's hallways like a ghost, touching and being around  _ everything _ . She was better off not to exchange words with him, but seeing him standing in her Father's solar,  _ uninvited _ , as if he has a right to be there made her blood boil. 

It has been the first thing she said to him since she brought him to Evenfall. That morning she broke her fast over eggs, milk, a loaf of bread and some walnuts, but something stirred inside her stomach as she stared at her plate, her Father's voice echoing in her mind that she  _ has _ to take him to Evenfall, even if she doesn't wish to.

He was almost laughable at the woods, with his torn clothes. His tired eyes and the dark circles underneath them told her he spent the night sleeping on rocks, yet he was pointing that sword of his at her, Lannister gold hilt and ruby eyes. He was exhausted, using his left hand, and she was unarmed, but she could have taken him.

At least here she is alone, away from his presence haunting her even when she is trying to fall asleep in her bedchamber, knowing he is across the castle. The hot water melts all of his features away, leaving her mind with blissful  _ nothing _ .

Then the door swings wide open. “My lady!” Lannister calls, walking straight into the room, wearing the clothes the spirits have brought him today, a bright yellow tunic and a pair of brown breeches.

The soap falls from her hands in a soft splash into the water. In shock, Brienne realizes she’s right in front of him, and quickly crosses her arms on her chest. “What- what are you doing  _ here _ ?” she wants to shout, but her voice trembles.

Jaime takes off his shirt in one swift move, and he has that smirk on his face, like when he first crashed on the beach. “I need a bath, and this seems to be the only place you won’t run away from me,” he jumps on one foot, kicking his breeches off, and looks around the bathhouse. “What a nice place. Is this where you’ve been hiding from me?”

Her heart stops, her throat becomes dry and all the words disappear from her mouth as he looks at her. The light catches on his body and she can't help but notice how strong his arms are, from years of sword fighting, no doubt. His hair has grown longer, flowing in golden waves. There is stubble on his face as well, and she realizes she didn't provide him with a razor.

“It-it is none of your concern,” she manages to scowl this time, albeit weakly.

He chuckles under his breath and begins to unlace his smallclothes. Brienne gasps and remembers to look at the still water surface before he tosses them to the damp floor. Worse, he walks right to her, naked as his nameday.

_ He means to get in with me. _ “There’s another tub!” She sways to the corner where steps are carved into the old stone, hoping to pull herself out, as he already lowers himself into the steaming water across from her.

“This one suits me fine,” he shifts inside, finding a good way to sit. She catches a glimpse of his golden hand as it sinks under the water. _Does he bathe with a chunk of metal strapped to his wrist?_ His gaze doesn't seem to let go of her, that  _ damn _ smile on his face.

She wants to wipe it away with her fist. “You Lannisters are all so arrogant.” Her arms are wrapped around her legs, bringing her knees to her chest. This has never happened before. No one has ever dared to be in the baths at the same time as her, let alone get inside, no matter how much they taunted or teased her.

“Precisely what I wanted to talk with you about,” he fishes the soap she dropped, leans against the wall with immense leisure and runs the bar up and down his arm.

At once the bath is too hot for her. She blinks, trying to understand his meaning, and her mind is thick with fog. “You wanted to talk… so you came here?”

The smile disappears from his face and suddenly his whole posture changes. His shoulders slope, his face drops down and it seems like he's about to fade into the water. She has always been good at reading weaknesses, in a fight, but never outside of it, and she realizes he might have been jumping from one mood to another during the past fortnight.

“Would you have stayed to listen if it was anywhere else?” he asks, and his voice is so light, devoid of accusation, as if he was asking her how is the weather today or complimenting the newest shirt she made.

She considers this. He is right, to some degree. She wouldn’t have stayed, not in her garden, nor in the Great Hall, nor in her bedchamber, and she doesn’t need to stay here either. “No,” she turns from him and places her leg on the first step.

A wave comes behind her before she can push herself outside, a hand on her shoulder, and she freezes. “Brienne, please,” drops of water roll down her arm from where Jaime is holding her. She can feel every one of his fingers, from base to the tips. She can feel his chest and his legs too, every part of him becomes  _ notable _ . “I’m sick of fighting. Let’s call a truce.”

She crosses her arms on her chest again and turns to him. “You need trust to have a truce." Her words linger in the air as his eyes drift down her face. He must be thinking that her shoulders are too board and freckled, that her arms are too long and her chest so small she doesn't need to hide it. She doesn't care.

“I trust you,” he says, his voice low as a whisper. He’s so close the only thing that parts them is a pillar of steaming water raising from the surface. In the darkness of the bathhouse, his golden hair has turned darker, but his emerald eyes are shining. “I just want to talk.”

They stay like that for a moment. She has never been his close to a man before, naked at most. A cut on his right cheek catches her eyes and another one down on his collar bone. His eyelashes drip, and she doesn’t dare to look down.  _ The Gods are truely testing me _ , she thinks , but she nods, and something relaxes in him.

Still, she gets out. Jaime blinks as she climbs the steps, out of his trance. Back when he crashed, he imagined how tall she must be, but seeing is an entirely different thing. Her arms  _ are _ long, her legs are even longer, and the freckles trail to her back as well. By the time he remembers to look at the water, she’s leaving small pools on the floor. He curls his fingers and sinks further down to his chin.

Brienne rushes to take her towel from the wooden bench against the wall, every rational thought screaming at her to leave. She doesn’t trust him the way he announced he trusts her, but she trusts him enough to believe he won’t harm her- not that he can - and won’t turn around now. So she dries herself from head to toe, moves her fingers through her hair, and wraps the towel around her. _This is unheard of, I should go_.

Inside the bath, Jaime regains some of his sanity. It was not like him to be short-breathed, especially not because of the homely likes of Brienne of Tarth.  _ It must have been too long. _ “What do you know of me?” he returns to the topic at hand.

“I know your Father is the God of Westeros,” her footsteps echo in the empty room and her voice grows closer as she approaches him. “I know he imprisoned me here and exiled my Father and all of his people after he came begging for forgiveness.”

He glances to his side, and she towers behind him, covered in a white towel, her hand pressing it to her chest. Her soaked hair falls like a stream down her neck, tucked under one ear. She looks down at him- not with anger, he’s surprised to learn, with unwavering calmness, as if she's reciting facts made by history.

It's true, he realizes. These are the harsh facts that have shaped her life since she was barely a woman grown. A coldness spreads in the pit of his stomach, reminding him that somehow this is his fault, that despite not knowing her at the time, her faith is tied to him. 

“I’m not talking about Tywin Lannister. What do you know about  _ me _ , Brienne?” he faces her now, leaning his hands on the edge of the bath. It reminds him of the way she stood over him in the crater, a long, long time ago. Her face isn't twisted in fury, though, it's simple. Honest. 

Brienne hesitates with that answer, biting on her lip, and when she speaks the words roll slowly off her tongue, like she’s bringing to life some horrible truth. Her blue eyes are the clearest thing in the world, like beaconing lights, and for the first time, he sees some uncertainty in them. 

“I know you’re a great swordfighter," she says, so quietly. "I know you killed your King, and your Father was his Master of War.” And then, because it has to be said- “I know you lost your hand after.”

He nods, unable to look into her eyes. Countless people have used his maiming as a joke, calling him a cripple behind his back, trying to hide their smiles at feasts when he spilled a goblet of wine or failed at cutting his food. Some of the noble lords and ladies are polite enough to his face, but he knows as soon as he's out of sight, the sneers begin. His Sister mocks him at every opportunity, his Father tried to remove him from the Kingsguard based on incompetency- if his own family shows him no kindness, why should others?

A warm feeling comes to his hand, what has been his real hand, and he stretches each finger under the water, crosses them, snaps them together. He hasn't used his golden hand since he arrived here, hasn't moved it at all. It dawns on him how long it has been. He doesn't use it often- too heavy and unpractical- but never for a fortnight. This island, Brienne... _something_ has changed.

"And what do you know of me?" She curls her legs from under and sits on the corner close to him. It's impossible not to glance at her neck, her shoulders, spotted with freckles. They even reach down her fingers. _She must have them all over._

He draws his knees to himself, very aware of every part of his body. "I know my Father cursed you because you wouldn't marry." It's hard to say that word, cursed. Doomed, more like it. With one blink of a thought, his Father has doomed her life forever.

To his surprise, Brienne snorts. It's the only sound she has made that isn't shouting or growling at him. It's almost like a laugh. She rolls her eyes, shaking her head, but anger is hidden behind her eyes. "Is that what he told Westeros? I wouldn't marry because all of my betrothals were offending."

"What do you mean?" He only knows the general part of the story, never cared enough to ask, and his Father isn't the kind of man who shares every detail.

She purses her lips and looks at him, probably wondering why is he being so difficult about this. _I'm a slow learner_, he answers. "The first one died when I was three. The second threw a rose at my face in front of my Father and all of his noble guests at two-and-ten. The third I was betrothed to was thrice my age, half a year later. When I refuse to marry him, your Father cursed me."

His head spins at the numbers. Such a small island, her Father only a minor deity, it's no wonder she counts her years like the common, human folks. At court in King's Landing, in everywhere he has ever been, in truth, the age that matters is your Godly age. To her, he looks 1351 years old- or something around that. To others, he's nine-and-ten. By her looks, Brienne is younger than him, by a century or so.

"I-I didn't know..." He wants to apologize, but the words won't leave his mouth. "Can it be broken?" He asks, instead.

She leans on her hand, squeezing the water from her hair in the other. "Only once I get married, in the words of your Father." She stares at her open palm scratching the old stone, and he knows she finishes in her mind- _but who will marry me?_

They remain in silence, perhaps the least antagonizing one they have shared yet. It's sad, if anything. Then Brienne lifts her face, _damn_ those unyielding eyes, and glances at the walls behind him before returning to his face. "Why did you kill King Aerys?"

For a moment he thinks he misheard her. No one has ever asked him this question, not Lord Stark when he found him sitting on the Iron Throne's steps, Aerys drowned in a puddle of blood at his feet. Not his Father, after the Lannister forces sacked the city. Not his sister, that would have been Rhaegar's wife if Robert's rebellion never happened. Not even Tyrion, his little curious Brother.

No one considered to ask a barely thousand years old man, five-and-ten, a brother of the kingsguard, why he has betrayed all his vows and murdered his King. No one has ever cared

But she does. "Aerys... he was called the Mad King. Do you know of wildfire?" She nods. "He was obsessed with it. At his last years, he grew paranoid, certain someone will kill him. He didn't allow any blades at his presence, except for his kingsguard's. At his final year, he ordered his pyromancers to place caches of wildfire all across King's Landing, beneath the Sept of Balor, beneath the Red Keep as well." 

Images of Ricard Stark floods him, the Northen lord burning alive in his armor as his son chokes, trying to reach his sword. He can his screams too as the flames took his grey clothes, catching his wolfskin cloak, and the smell of burning flesh. He can hear Rhaella's pleads as well, her cries as her King husband leaves his claws on her fair skin. He doesn't want to live these memories again, but he goes on.

"Then, the Baratheon and Stark forces took on the Trident. I came to the King, begging for him to surrounder. He let the gates open for my Father and he sacked the city. When the King heard, he ordered me to bring him my Father's head." He can see Aerys's bloodshot grey eyes, his nails sharp as tallows, his uncut beard reaching his chest and Rossart standing by his side. It all comes pouring out of him.

"Then he turned to his head pyromancer. Burn them all, he kept saying. Burn them in their homes, burn them in their beds... First, I killed his Hand, and when the Mad King turned to flee I shoved my sword through his back. I don't think he expected to die, he-he thought he'd be burnt with the rest of us. Be reborn as a dragon. I slit his throat to make sure that won't happen." There is blood. So much blood. On his face, on his hands, on his white cloak too...

"Oathbreaker, they call me. Would you have done it? Would you have kept your oath and stand by as thousands of innocents die? Men, women and children?" The words spill out of him, sharper than knives, and he can't face her, can't look at the horrified expression on her face. 

He wants to relish in this bitter, furious feeling. He wants it to consume him until there is nothing left, to burn away his sins and his broken vows. He has let down so many, his Brothers, his Prince, his Princess of Dorne and her two children. His family as well, when he returned with no hand. His honor is as good as shit, and what is left of him without it?

"Jaime," Brienne's voice cuts through the flames and ashes. Then- a hand on his shoulder, just like before. She drops it when their eyes meet, a brief moment before she looks away. "I'm sorry this happened to you," she whispers, and for the first time, he isn't bothered by the pity. Not when it comes from her. "I apologize for calling you Kingslayer, too. That was unhonorable of me." And- Gods, is she real? She stayed to listen, didn't run away in terror, and she truly believes him. 

He's lost in her words, her sincerity, in her being next to him, in this room. He has forgotten he's still inside the bath and that he has barely bathed at all. The fire runs out inside of him. It feels like fresh air. Like light after a storm. It's a strange feeling. Almost a freeing one.

"I'm sorry for crashing on your island," he says in return. "I know you don't want me here." 

Her eyes widen a bit at his apology. "No, that's not..." She fumbles with her hands at her lap. "You're welcome to stay, of course." 

He nods, and she takes her leave to dress behind him. She spoke out of duty, he knows, but the gesture was kind, and that's enough for him.

She appears in front of him dressed in pale blue and grey and the tunic sticks to her moist skin, outlining every curve and muscle. 

"Dinner is about to be ready. You can join me at the Great Hall, if you'd like," she offers with a little smile. Some ice melted and her cheeks are bright pink. Nervous, most like it. He is, too. 

"I will. Thank you, Brienne. For everything." A moment of silence passes, but it's a hopeful one. An understanding. Brienne nods, crosses the bathhouse, and closes the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you!  
i'm on [tumblr](https://ikknowplaces.tumblr.com)


	4. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne talk over dinner after the bath, have breakfast together, Brienne takes Jaime to her magical garden, some accidents happen during their sword fight, and Brienne remembers her past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off, i’m sorry for the long time it took me to update, but! i have a good reason. this chapter is ridiculously long. i actually didn’t know what to do with myself when i finished the breakfast scene and it was nearly 4k. i didn’t imagine it would involve so much eating, too
> 
> this is my favorite chapter, by far, because it’s a lot longer and it has my favorite scenes, which you will see. it exhausted me, but it was a lot of fun as well. we’re reaching the end, everyone. and i hate to sound all angsty, but things will become sadder from here, because jaime won't stay forever
> 
> i hope you’ll love this chapter as much as i do. also! i made a playlist for this fic. you can listen to it [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/09qawq16vjefaerobmv6gw707/playlist/2KaxRlCggtTXcWodTYDaHx?si=eD1lqpCiS_ObS4jNik_KNg)

Jaime gets out of the bathhouse feeling like the weight of a dozen bricks has been lifted from his chest. His head still spins from his miles long, breath wretching confession. He didn't even realize the words as they spilled free from his mouth, but he's glad. Glad that he and Brienne are on speaking terms now, as fragile and new as they might be. The past fortnight has been the most silence filled time he has ever known. It was agonizing, to sleep and eat under the same roof with a person and barely see them, let alone talk. He has become more familiar with thoughts and his reflection in that ages-old looking-glass in his bedchamber than ever. 

But now, it's better. They have this connection and it's all he needs at the moment, to know that Brienne doesn't resent him fully- or at all. The bath has only been a beginning, and he can build from there. Getting to know each other. He has always been good with people, Lannister charms and all, the fact that he's a literal god helps, of course, but it's different now, here, with Brienne. 

Maybe it's because she hated him when he first arrived. Maybe it's because she didn't share a single word with him and avoided his sight for two weeks. Maybe it's because he walked into her Father's solar and couldn't apologize before she pushed him out. Maybe it's because he has never confessed to anyone what really happened that day, with Aerys. Maybe it's because she was the first one to ask.

He climbs up to the Great Hall and each step feels as if it was newly carved. He has donned his clothes again, tying the laces with both of his hands. He didn't take off the golden one during the bath, he realizes. It's for the best, though. Brienne wouldn't want to see his stump. The air is colder as he ascends and it fills his chest with something he can't pinpoint. Anxiousness. Or perhaps hope. 

He can't get Brienne's words out of his mind, echoing like a winter breeze blowing on hollow trees.  _ I'm sorry this happened to you. I apologize for calling your Kingslayer.  _ The more they repeat, the more he's blinded by them. She believes him. He doesn't know if he would have believed himself, with no evidence and witnesses. Not that it matters when it came to his King he swore to protect, as Ned Stark established with one glance of his wolf-like grey eyes. She apologized to him. No one will ever apologize for calling him Kingslayer, unless he beats them bloody. 

He crosses the corridor and Brienne is there, waiting for him. She sits where she always does, at the end of the small table, already set, her back to Evenfall's doors. He takes her all in, for a moment, as her fingers trace the delicate decorations embroidered into the cloth. Her straw-blonde hair falls to her shoulders, pushed behind one ear. She swings one leg back and forth until it bumps at the stone floor, and she kicks it up again. Her overtunic reaches just past her knees, her breeches white and clean. The chandelier is hanging lit from the ceiling, along with a few torches burning against the walls. The curtains are pushed aside, allowing some of the moonlight to reach inside. It glimmers in her blue eyes as she lifts her head to see him, looking somewhat startled. 

He is lost of speech, as well, as he approaches the table like it's one of the wild lions caged in Casterly Rock, about to bite him. Cersei once dared him, as children, to put his hand through the iron bars. He stops just before the table and offers Brienne a thin smile. She returns it before gazing down at her plate, and he takes the seat by her side. 

His plate is already full of meat and rice drowned in a reddish sauce, a bowl of freshly washed vegetables, knife and fork placed to his left and right. His Sister, his Father, and maybe Tyrion too would have complained the meal is too simple for someone so highborn as he is, but he has become used to Brienne's small meals, plainly served, with always a piece of fruit or vegetable at the side, and water, never wine. Sometimes the smells reached to his room as he imagined her cooking in the kitchens, and the taste has always been as good.

Brienne takes the first bite, chewing soundlessly, and they fall into this routine. Jaime dines with his Brothers, not often, and the silence is much heavier, one between a commander and the knights under him. Silence with Brienne is no stranger to him, but this kind is different. No longer an unpassable wall, but an empty room waiting to be filled. 

He reaches out for a piece of sliced bell pepper, ripe and orange. It fills his mouth with sweetness. He balances some rice on his fork and feels Brienne's eyes on him.

She's been sneaking glances at him since he sat, but her sapphire eyes are lingering on him now, watching. She clears her throat, a gentle sound, and he nearly falls from his chair. "Go on," she says, and for some reason, a wave of familiarity washes over him with her voice. "I can tell you have questions," she brings a piece of meat to her mouth.

He puts his fork down, his fingers brushing against each other as Brienne shifts through her plate, no near nervous as he is. Maybe she's just good at hiding, he thinks, but it comes to him that she must have done this tens of other times before. "How old are you? And how long have you been here?" He asks, not wanting to say trapped or cursed, to face the reality he's already living.

"1273, but to the common people I look nine-and-ten, I guess. And I've been here all my life." Her netural tone grew sharper at the end, her eyes just as fierce. He stares right back, ignoring the not-so-subtle hint, and Brienne's face twists in discomfort, regretting her words. He doesn't hold it against her. He knows that force of habit too well, hiding behind sneers and sarcastic japes. "I've been here for 683 years," she says, more quietly now, and digs into her food before peeking at him. "You?"

He has to take in the numbers before he can answer. Almost half of her life, spent all by herself. "1351- what are those things?" he raises his arms as the pitcher pours water into his cup all by itself. He has been wondering how Evenfall's doors just open for her and how his breakfast, lunch and suppers have been appearing in his room out of thin air. If you would have told him Brienne brought them up to his bedchamber, with a table, three times a day, he would have burst laughing. For once, because Tartarus, the seventh Hell, would have frozen over before she would have labored for him, and for twice, because he would have  _ heard _ .

Brienne laughs at his exaggerated shock and shakes her head a bit, tracing her fork against her plate, and there's a beat in his chest. "Invisible water spirits. They help me around."

He has nothing to say at that. It makes sense. Running a castle is busy work for servants, gardeners, cookers, handmaidens, squires, even. It would be impossible for one person to do the work of dozens. It makes him relieved too, that she isn't completely alone. 

He hasn't touched his meat, it comes to him, and he clutches the knife in his golden hand.  _ Too feebly,  _ he curses. He might as well remove it altogether. He pins the section with his other hand, but before he can start cutting, Brienne speaks.

" _ You can move it? _ " She breathes, lips parted, as she glances between him and his hand, frowning, with those stunning eyes. 

"Yes," he smiles and wriggles his free fingers. It's a singular thing, he was told by the smith who brought it to him, although his apprentice made it. A bastard son of Hephaestus, working on the Street of Steel. He doesn't remember his name. It's supposed to be an incredible thing, to make maidens swoon and lords marvel in awe of the wonders of the Gods, that he can move his hand, made of gold, but it only makes him feel useless. He can't hold a sword, let alone wield it, or write as good as he used to, or feel his Brother's embrace, or pleasure a woman with both of his hands. 

Brienne looks like she wants to say something, the same hesitated look she had before she asked him why he killed Aerys. She seems like she wants to reach out and touch each of his moving, golden fingers. Instead, she focuses on her meal.

He continues to eat. The meat is good, as always, the vegetables are a refreshing addition, and the water soothes everything down. He stares at the wall in front of him, thinking of all the things he wants to ask her. One question that has been returning to his mind stands out.

"What did you mean when you said my Father exiled all your people? I never heard about that part." It has been holding onto him, since the first day in the woods and in the bath too. 

She shrugs. "I meant what it means. Your Father didn't just curse me to stay here forever, he took my Father and all our people. Their houses disappeared too, all the streets and the roads. Only Evenfall remained."

Jaime looks away from her, trying to understand. H _ ow can she be so calm? _ It was typical of his Father, so unbelievably cruel. He thinks of the day he saw Lord Selwyn storming out of the Red Keep. He was begging for forgiveness for his young daughter, and Tywin punished him further instead. He didn't satisfy in only banishing them, he took all memory of them as well, leaving Brienne with nothing, not even the shells of their crumbling houses, their faded footsteps on worm out paths. Not a hint that anyone has ever lived her but her, leaving her haunted and alone like a ghost. 

The shock dissolves, giving way to anger bubbling up in the pit of his stomach, and for once he wishes he were on fire. His hand closes into a fist but his voice comes out choked and weak. "Do you know where they are?" 

"No," she shakes her head and lowers it to the table, no longer sounding so dismissive. She doesn't care about herself, clearly, but her family, her Father, is another thing.

He has to be careful. "Could you break the curse, if you wanted to?'

She does lift her gaze to meet him, and he has never seen her so vulnerable before. There's a layer of gloss on her eyes and- G _ ods, is she tearing up?  _ Has no one ever asked her if she could leave? He knows the real meaning behind his question.  _ Was anyone willing to marry you? _

"Yes. Several times," she answers, and it's no surprise to him. She is a daughter of a God, as minor as he might be, so that makes her a Goddess as well. Even if she wasn't, she is her Father's sole heir, and Tarth is a neat prize for small knights with big aspirations. Surely some of them were ready to marry a broad, tall daughter who looks nothing like how maidens should look like for Tarth.

"Why didn't you, then? Wouldn't you rather marry a man you don't like for your Father to return home?" He certainly would have done it, suffer quietly by himself if his loved ones could be happy. He has done it for half a million people. 

She scoffs, taken back. "Are be bound for the rest of my life to a husband who doesn't respect me? Who will cast me aside after I bear him enough children? Who will dishonor my House name when he goes to lie with other women?" The anger rises up in her throat. That's familiar, and better than crying. She crosses her arms on her chest and shakes her head, her decision done, solid as stone. "No. I won't have it."

"How do you know they're not suffering?" It suits his Father, to top everything and send her Father to a place far worse than Tarth, with its endless coast and tranquil waves. The world doesn't lack in places that could put the Tartarus to shame; Harrenhall, burnt and ruined. Dragonstone, deserted after the Targaryens. Skagos, a frozen island full of savages. 

"Your Father would have taunted me if they were," she answers, her face emotionless and cold all over again. He can feel their conversation in the bathhouse erasing, everything he told her and everything she shared with him reducing to nothing but ash if he won't stop offending her. 

He keeps going. "Would you have married then?"

It comes out almost as a whisper and Brienne's cheeks turn bright red, not from anger, he supposes. Her face relents as well and he doesn't know from what reason. Surprise, perhaps. She bites her lips and looks away from him and he thinks-  _ that's it. _ She will never speak to him again.

The moment of silence that seems like a forever passes before she pushes her chair away. "That's enough for today," she mutters, still avoiding his eyes, and crosses the table.

"Brienne, wait," he gets up from his seat. She stops in her tracks on the other side of the table, her Father's chair behind her, and flinches when he says her name, shutting her eyes and holding her fists so tight they turn white. He waits until she turns to him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be, it's okay," she says and the urge to reach out to her floods him, to take her hand and make her look into his eyes until she understands he didn't mean to hurt her. He watches her walk towards the set of stairs that leads to her room, leaving the table uncleared, so unlike her. She turns again, her hand on the railing. "Goodnight, Jaime." 

"Goodnight," that single word pours out of him, in relief. Then Brienne has gone to her bedchamber and he falls back on his chair, letting out a breath he has been holding since the beginning of the dinner, and buries his face in his hands. 

**─**

Brienne lies alone in her bed on the top of the covers, in a simple nightgown. She hides her eyes in the crook of her elbow, slowly breathing the cool summer night air. She doesn't cry, it surprises her, although the tears did threaten to spill free on her face. The bathhouse, this supper... Jaime wasn't trying to offend her, she knows, but it was too hard to speak her fears into the world, to him. No one has ever been that interested in her. No one has ever asked if she had the chance to escape.  _ Yes, _ she answers.  _ Yes, if they were suffering, I would have. _ Her chest falls and rises, the air filling her lungs, until all the thoughts quiet in her mind. She curls under the blankets and dreams of ocean waves and golden sunlight.

**─**

By the time Jaime lifts his face from his hands, the water spirits have carried away all the dishes away from the table. He goes up the stairs to his room. If he felt hope at the beginning of their dinner, he doesn't know what he feels now. Brienne isn't angry at him, she wouldn't have told him goodnight if she was, but he touched a nerve. Set something off. And now she may be more reluctant with him than ever.

He lingers in the corridor, moonlight over him. Her bedchamber is just across, on this other side of Evenfall. He could walk, just a few steps, nothing more, knock on her door, apologize again. She must be asleep, though, under a blanket sewn with stars, surrounded in blue. 

He sees her again in the morning, standing over the balcony. She sits at the end of the table, lifting a book as she takes a sip of water. This morning sunlight puts the candlelight from last evening to shame, turning her hair golden, radiating on her skin. 

"Good morning," he says, and she lowers the book, those blue eyes hitting him again. They're pale blue, in this light. She must have heard him going down the stairs, but she looks uneasy all the same. 

"Good morning," she nods. 

He glances at the chair to her side. "Can I join you?"

She looks from him to the chair, and the plate in front of it, silverware and napkin, and then to him again, something between a frown and a pity smile on her face. "Of course."

This morning they break their fast over roasted eggs, a loaf of bread, beans, and lettuce. He takes his seat and doesn't wait long. "I apologize for last night, I didn't mean to upset you."

Brienne seems to be taken back from his straightforwardness, but she answers before cutting her egg with the side of her fork. "You didn't." She tears a piece of bread and takes another sip of water. Then, in a lower voice, almost as if it's forced out of her, she says- "Why don't you tell me something about yourself?"

He thinks it's the first silence they have that isn't his fault. Awkward silence, most of it. Brienne's cheeks redden at her suggestion, painting her freckles with blush, as she goes through her meal. He can feel her embarrassment flowing to him. It feels too much like something she would ask him if they were strangers and met in an overnight inn. No one just asks a dishonorable Kingslayer to  _ tell them something about himself _ . 

"I think you know everything there is to know," he dismisses her, for once, because it's true, and for twice, to ease the wave of awkwardness. His life can be summed up in one sentence:  _ I killed my King when I was 988 years old. _

She's thankful that he didn't let the tension linger, he can see, after she raises her face to him. "I don't think that's entirely true. You have a brother, right?"

It doesn't come to him as a surprise that she knows he has a brother. The entire realm has heard of Lord Tywin's dwarf son, to be sure, with two mismatching eyes are curly blonde hair. "And a sister," it doesn't bring him much joy to speak of Cersei, still celebrating after a fortnight. "She's the reason why I'm here."

"What do you mean?" Brienne tilts her head and puts her glass to her lips. 

"She kicked me out of the Red Keep, sent me flying through the air." He answers, bitterly, recalling his flight through the clouds, waking up to a blinding sea that would kill him. Setting himself on fire, breaking his vow. Opening his eyes to Brienne, glaring down at him.  _ How she hated me. _

His chain of thought breaks when she nearly spits her drink and covers her mouth, holding down a chuckle, her other hand gripping the edge of the table. " _ What? _ " 

"What is that funny?" He stares at her as she tries to quiet her laughter. He feels as if he's at the beach again, confused after the raft didn't come, after she stormed into the forest. 

"Most people  _ wash _ over here, they don't get thrown to the sky," the pitch of her voice is high and she finally takes a breath, settling herself. "What did you do to deserve such a punishment?" She asks, returning to her food.

"I don't remember." It's the strangest thing. Every night he lies awake in his foreign bed, trying to recall the argument with Cersei. He has a few options, the differences with his Sister never grow too short, but the memory refuses to come back to him. 

_ Perhaps I should thank Cersei _ , he smirks. If they didn't fight, if she didn't throw him out of that window, he would never have found this place. He would never have learned the truth about his Father- and Brienne. Tarth has opened his eyes.

His plate is empty, he realizes, and so is hers. She gets up, clenching her hands together in front of her. Only then he sees she's wearing a sleeveless white undertunic tucked into a roughspun blue breeches that widen around her ankles, held with a thin brown belt and a pair of flat shoes. "I'm going to the garden," all the playfulness has drained from her voice, and the image of her standing in front of him in the forest flows him, asking him to come to Evenfall with her. "You can go to the library or the armory, if you'd like." 

He smiles a little at her polite invention. He tends to avoid libraries, they suit his Brother more, too many memories of Tywin forcing him to seat with the Maester of Casterly Rock before he could switch to his sword. The letters always took places of other letters in his mind, making a simple word scrambled and difficult for him to understand. The armory, he has nothing to do there, on his own. He hasn't trained on straw dummies since his wooden sword was replaced by one made of steel. 

"Can I come with you?" 

She looks at him up and down, hesitating, before she nods, a smile on the corner of her lips. And so they leave their breakfast for the water spirits to carry, and Jaime almost feels ecstatic as they descend down the steps behind Selwyn's throne, the way he saw Brienne doing so many times while they were still unspeaking. 

The sun and cold breeze hit him at once when their exit to Evenfall's back courtyard, as big as the front one, cleared of trees with evergreen grass. Brienne skips on a stone path, putting her one foot ahead each time, before she stops under an archway, so thick with vines and pink flowers it seems alive. She steps aside and the world's most beautiful garden opens up to him.

"Holy Demeter," he whispers as he inches closer to her side. He isn't one to mention the Gods or have his breath taken away by a garden, but this one is  _ stunning _ . Brienne must sense his shock, because she grins, peeking at his dropped jaw and wide eyes, and walks forward.

He follows her trail, taking as much as he can in. There are three sets of rows ahead of him and to his sides, blooming with flowers in pink, blue and yellow. Behind the row in front of him, purple ones climb hold onto wooden poles, pierced close to a line of bushes. 

Brienne walks out a small cabin to his right, with gloves on her hands, holding a funnel made of metal. He watches her pace between endless crops of cucumbers and carrots, lettuces and tall tomatoes, turnips and onions. She almost looks graceful, in this bright light. She almost looks  _ happy _ . 

He goes turns to the other side of the garden, not wanting to stare. It is just as beautiful as the other one, he walks between trees of apples and peaches, so rich he nearly mistakes their color for gold. For nectar, he assumes. There are a few lemons trees as well, and behind them, at the far end of the garden, a huge oak tree, its leaves falling in the wind, two swings hanging from its massive branch. He passes them, tugging at the ropes with his flesh hand, feeling the coarseness of the oak with the tip of his fingers.

When he comes back, Brienne is crouching next to a circle made of bricks. She digs the ground with a small shovel, throws a couple of seeds inside and covers it back up. 

"This garden is truly beautiful, did you make it yourself?" he asks. A drop of sweat falls down her face and he notices her hair is tied up in a ribbon. 

She gets up and takes the dirty gloves off her hands. "Some of the trees and vegetables were here, but I planted the rest." She looks around her garden, as if seeing the reward of her efforts for the first time, smiling.

"You cook, you read, you work in your garden..." He tilts his head from side to side. "Anything else you do in your spare time?"

She remains silent for a moment, her blue eyes gazing him. Then she lifts her chin higher and puts her hand on her hip. "I spar," she says and it nearly sounds as if she's daring him to make some rude comment. 

He most likely would have, if she was another woman. He would have, if she told him that on the first day at the beach. The whole  _ world _ would have, because a Lady, highborn and a maiden at most, should be the last person to wield a sword. It doesn't shock him, though, he remembers Tywin mentioning something about her being disobedient in marrying and insisting on sword fighting. 

"Well?" He raises an eyebrow, enjoying this new kind of conversation.

"Very well," she answers with the same smirk, her sapphire eyes sparkling, and he thinks-  _ Oh, this will be fun. _

"Care to show me?" He flashes his most innocent smile.

**─**

He waits for her at the Great Hall as she changes her clothes to ones more appropriate for sword-fighting, more eager than ever. His fingers open and close on his sword's hilt and his legs want to make him run outside to the practice ground. His sword has been laid at the side of his bed and he hasn't touched it since he came. He hasn't sparred with anyone, less alone worthy as Brienne claims she is. No one in King's Landing dares to raise a sword at Lord Tywin's son. He likes to think it's out of fear, but in his heart, he knows it's out of pity as well. He has had plenty of years to train with his left hand, but all of his instincts still remain on the opposite side of his body. A squire could take him out and without much effort.

When Brienne steps down from her bedchamber, dressed in boiled leather, her chin high and a smile on her face, she  _ looks _ worthy enough. The sword she carries seems worn out and can be bigger to adjust better to her height, but she carries it well, as if that's what she's meant to do.

_ She can almost be a true knight, in this light. _

"Who taught you how to fight?" He asks when she's by his side. 

"My old master-at-arms," she leads them towards the doors, staring ahead, something thoughtful in her eyes. This man, whether if he died when she was a girl or banished along with her Father, she must miss him.

Then they're out in the open again, this time in Evenfall's front courtyard. He has passed through it every day, going to the ocean and the cliff, wishing for the raft. 

When they reach the sparring area, polished and smooth, she watches him as he unsheathes his sword, waiting for their dance to begin. The golden hilt shines in the sunlight, silver and metal glowing in white. It isn't the sword he killed Aerys with, thank the Gods. That one was too stained in blood and shattered honor, melted or thrown to the sea or given to some unknowing soldier of the City Watch. He doesn't know, and he doesn't want to either.

"I won't go easy on you," he says, taking his stance. 

"I don't want you to." She doesn't have to answer. He can see it in the sparks in her eyes, in the tightness of her smile as she sets her feet on the floor.

He has always liked to take his time with his opponents, study their weaknesses as he stalls, making them come to him. Teasing Brienne is as simple as breathing, something he learned as soon as he crashed. He circles her, watching the way she responds to his movements, every change in her legs and arms. Her stance is wide enough to keep her well stabled, her shoulders are raised just at the right height. 

By now she should have taken the first strike, showing she's as good as he is, but she waits. He realizes that if he as a woman, he would have done the same, let arrogant men waste their strength trying to prove a woman can't wield a sword. 

He takes the first swing, a wide arc across her chest. She blocks it at once, steel meeting steel, and their dance begins. His blood boils instantly, growing hotter every time their swords kiss and meet and break apart. He always feels the most alive with a sword in his hand, as he was before he swore for Aerys, a green boy beating seniors of him in tourneys, with life and death on the line with every attack. He isn't trying to kill Brienne, but his strikes become deadlier with every one she blocks.

It's as if there is a cage around her, keeping her safe from his blows. She sneaks some attacks at him, but not nearly as much he does. They're straightforward and merciless, to his chest and stomach and shoulders, but he finds himself smiling as he pushes them away and Brienne answers him with a grin as she parries a cut to her left side, and soon enough they're both laughing breathlessly.

The most wondrous thing is that their weaknesses match. Him fighting with his uncertain, left hand that has always been nothing but his shield hand, and Brienne's lack of practice- lack of people, really- since his Father cursed her make them equal, more or less, as they slide across the floor. 

An old song comes to him as he steps back, keeping the point of his sword at the center of her, a moment to catch his breath. "Come on, come on, my sweetling, the music’s still playing. Might I have this dance, my lady?" He sings, gesturing with his right hand for her to come to him.

As expected, she snorts and rolls her eyes before she slashes at him, so hard sparks fly when their swords join together. He manages to slip the tip of his sword between her legs in a swift slice that would have opened her thigh, but she catches him before he can thrust enough.

She calls out in surprise, redness spreading on her cheeks before going towards his feet, jabbing her sword until he's skipping from one leg to the other. Hours pass by as he presses the next attack on her, driving her back to the edge of the floor. He brings his blade down at her, an upswing to her head, but she never misses a beat and blocks him in the air.

They remain still in this position, defending and attacking. The only sound in the world is their ragged breaths, their chests rising and falling. Sweat rolls down Brienne's face, down her cheeks and into her neck, her blue eyes piercing him, and he realizes one horrible truth:

_ She is stronger than me. _

It chills him to the bone. Robert was stronger than him, with his belly full of wine and pride in his thick skull. His Brother Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, was stronger than him, and Arthur Dayne as well. Joffery's dog, the Hound and his brother, the Mountain, with a strength that is nothing like human, are stronger than him. It never mattered. With speed and skill, Jaime can beat any of them. But not her.

"Yield," she says.

"No." He backs away just in time as she steps to bring another attack at him. He dodges it. The second one he blocks, lifting his arm to meet her. He's out of breath again, his shoulders are numb, his wrist aches, and his sword has grown heavier in his weak hand. He hasn't been swinging it as quickly than before, nor rising it as high.

The third attack comes well above his head and he raises his hand too slowly to block it. The pain blinds him for a second as Brienne's blade bite into his hairline. It would have opened his skull from forehead to chin if she didn't stop. Instead, the blow catches him half the way towards his eye, over his eyebrow.

He backs away, groaning as blood drips onto his side, down the side of his nose. 

Brienne stares at him and her sword falls from her hand. "Oh my Gods," she rushes to him, hands covering her mouth, but she stops before she's too near him, as if there's a fire burning on his boots. "Why didn't you block that? You could've blocked that!" Her eyes dart around him for a moment before she preys his sword away, sending it clattering against the floor. 

"You caught me," he shrugs. The wound doesn't hurt that bad, it was the surprise that made it more painful.

"This isn't funny!" She shouts, her eyes clear. She takes a napkin out of her pocket and presses it to the bleeding cut. He wants to tease her he wouldn't have guessed her to be a gentle maiden who carries handkerchiefs and cries out at the sight of blood, but for once he restrains himself. 

**─**

She leads him across the courtyard, through the first gate, the wall and beneath the bridges. Evenfall's doors open up to her on their own, like they always do, and her footsteps echo in the empty room as she drops him in one of the chairs left from their breakfast. It's the one she always seats in. Their swords are placed against the table by the water spirits.

Behind him, she takes a breath and inches closer to him. Standing over him, her eyes gaze at his wound, still open but not leaking anymore. Her hands hover on his face, not quite touching him, as if he might burn her. He can barely feel the cut anymore, he's tempted to tell her, if only to understand why she seems more afraid of a gash on his face than in battle.

"Brienne," he grips her arm. She startles, eyes fixating on him like she has forgotten there's another part to him besides his injury, that she insists on taking so seriously. "Calm down, bring some water, wine, and cloths."

"Alright," she nods, and the three appear on the table, two bowls of water and cloths and even the wine, already boiled. She dips the white cloth in the water and brings it to his face, cleaning the blood first. "I'm sorry, I thought you'd block that," she wipes around his wound, gentler than he would have imagined. 

"It appears that I didn't. It was fun, though," his body is awfully still now, the adrenaline gone from his veins, his mind no longer set on attacking or shielding. 

"Yes," she drags the steaming wine towards her and from the corner of his eyes, he spies some blush spreading across her cheeks. "This might hurt, try not to move," she lifts the wine-soaked strap, but before she presses it to his forehead, she cups his cheek with her other hand.

_ She's warm,  _ it's all he thinks while her fingers brush his stubble covered face. There are some dots on them.  _ She is freckled all over. _ The wine burns when it reaches his open cut and he hissed at the impact, Brienne muttering apologies.

It ends as quickly as it started and she takes a step back, judging her work. "It isn't too deep, you shouldn't need stitches. I'll bring some nectar for supper," she says.

"Thank you. Same hour?" He leans back in the chair.

"Yes," she says, smiling at the floor, and turns to her chambers.

Alone, he finally relaxes. Their fight has been good, better than he anticipated. Brienne is a skilled fighter, worth more than all the men he's fought. He stretches his left hand and his sore legs. His cut doesn't sting anymore, two cups of nectar will turn it to a mere scar. 

The water spirits took the bowls and dirty rags away, but their swords are still there, laid at the edge. They have both forgotten about them because of the accident, it appears. He takes Brienne's and balances it on his lap. It is too short for her and could use some sharpening. The tip of it is red with blood. With a better sword, she could take down every knight in Kind's Landing. It brings a smile to his face, imagining her in court, knocking haughty lords to the ground. 

He returns her sword to its place and grabs his instead, wanting to take it to his bedchamber before heading to the bathhouse to wash the sweat off him. He glances down at the gold and steel, as if holding it for the first time, and something catches his eye. There's blood on his sword as well.

It must be from her sword, he thinks at first. They were close together, some of his blood could have reached from her blade to his, but there was too little on her, and there is too much on his.

_ Could I- _

"Brienne!" He calls up, racing up the stairs that lead to her bedchamber. If she's wounded, more severely than him, and in the wrong place, the outcome could be... he can't think of a word. Bad, very bad. "Brienne, there's blood on my sword, I think that I-"

He doesn't wait for her answer and pushes the door open. She gasps when he enters, her face pale as snow. For a heartbeat, he thinks she's bare below the waist, but she's still wearing her small cloth. His eyes fall between her legs, to a pool of blood under her thighs on a white towel.

"Must you burst into every room I'm into?" She scowls, but her voice is weak, her hair is plastered to her face with cold sweat, a layer of gloss covers her eyes and her fingers are bloody as well.

He sees them then, by her side, the three bowls of water, wine and cloths on her bed. There is something else in her hand, something smaller. A needle and a thread.

"What are you doing? You can't stitch yourself," he slams the door shut.

"Please get out," she doesn't meet his eyes as he walks to her and sits on the bed.

"Did you clean it with wine?" He takes a large piece of fabric and holds her hand with his golden one, wiping the blood away from her fingers.

"Yes, but-" she stutters.

"You're  _ covered _ ," he interrupts her, perhaps harsher than he intended, and it's not like he hasn't seen a woman in her smallclothes before. Brienne is a maiden, though, a shy maiden with only a tunic to protect her modesty. 

She raises her gaze to him before turning away, opening her thighs further apart. He drapes her leg over his waist and clicks his tongue when he sees how he got her. 

The wound is longer and deeper than what she gave him, stretching on the inside of her thigh. It is higher, having her small cloth folded up, and Brienne burying her face in her hand would have driven him away, but the wound needs to be sewn up.

"This will hurt, I'm sorry," he says, waiting for her to change her mind, but she nods into her palm and tells him to go own. He squeezes the slash between his golden fingers, bringing its edges together. She cries out when the needle pierces her, but he completes one stitch, then the other.

It takes him too much time then he would have liked. After hundreds of years, his left hand is still clumsy and uncertain. It wouldn't have made much of a difference, he supposes. Sewing was an activity saved for his Sister when they were young.

By the time he's done Brienne's face is strained with effort and her breath is short and labored, but it's done. The stitches are tight enough to hold and with the nectar, she'll be healed shortly after him.

"Can you stand?" He asks, getting off her bed.

"Yes," she pushes herself, planting her bare feet on the floor, but cries out before she can complete the step. He catches her so she won't fall, wrapping his arm around her.

"Maybe we should have supper here," he says.

She moves her head from his shoulder. "Can you spare me a moment?"

He's out of the door as she dresses. The table, dishes stacked with food, silverware, and glasses float by his side as an occasional groan or curse comes through the door. 

"You can come in," she says and he opens the door once again.

She sits at the edge of her featherbed, clasping her hands in front of her. The only change in her is that she drew her breeches on, but she feels more exposed than before. She has never dined with a man in her chamber, let alone after he stitched her wound as she was half-dressed.

Jaime's unshakeable confidence drowns her embarrassment, at least. The water spirits place the table and dishes in place and proceed to remove the bloody bowls from the room. He finds a stool and brings it to his side of the table while she pours some nectar for both of them.

"What a day. I did enjoy myself, don't let this fool you," he sighs, tapping on his wound. 

It has been a rather eventful day and a half. He has broken so many rules of courtesies she has stopped counting. The bath, to start with. No one has bathed with her. No one has ever been so open with her, either, asking what she knew of him. His confession about Aerys was chilling, a mad King who wanted to be burnt with all of his innocent people. 

Their supper was a breath away from being a disaster. He kept provoking her, asking those questions she didn't dare to ask herself, but he made her face the truth she couldn't run away from forever. If her people were suffering, she would rather suffer herself and end their agony.

Her garden was her most private place, even more than her Father's solar he walked into. She liked watching his eyes go wide and his jaw drop when they entered. She glanced at him now and then, wandering through the rows of trees as she planted new flowers.

The fight was the most delightful one she has ever had. All the men who raised their swords at her wanted to bring her down, to teach her place as a woman, but all Jaime wanted was to feel her worth. His golden hair glittered in the afternoon sun as he blocked her attacks and answered in return. He's the best knight she has fought against, quick and well on his feet and  _ strong _ . 

It isn't lady-like to brag, but she is better. She would have gotten him to yield if he caught her attack, but she settles on being even with him for now, since he got her as well. For once, victory doesn't matter to her. They learn from each other, they laughed and it was  _ good _ . 

"Me too," she smiles and focuses on her plate. She begins to dine, and Jaime follows her, both of them starving. They were absent most of the day, the spirits must have made supper on their own. It's delicious as makes it, the meat is well cooked, the vegetables are well cleaned, the bread is warm from the oven and the nectar is sweet when she drinks it.

"Has anyone come here?" Jaime asks when she chews on a piece of bread dipped in sauce. "Anyone that I know?" He corrects himself after she shoots him a look.

"You might know Ser Edmund Ambrose, Ser Hugh Beesbury, or Ser Hunt Hyle." Their faces and the faces of others, the many men who were unlucky enough to be washed to the shores of her home flash in her mind. Those who were angry, those who were insulted, those who were polite enough to hold their rage. The three she speaks of, who even courted her.

Her hand curls to a fist. Those who  _ wanted _ to be sent here and hoped to return with their chest puffed and their promised gold in their pockets.  _ Their wager. _

"I do know these men. They were sworn to Renly Baratheon," he lowers his eyes, shoving some meat into his mouth.

"Sworn?" Renly's name makes her heart flutter. She remembers when he visited Tarth in his coming of age tour, a young man with fine, black hair who liked to make the ladies smile. Most of them came from the Reach based on what they told them, or what their clothes told her when they wouldn’t speak. Why would they serve Lord Renly Baratheon?

Jaime lifts his eyes to her again and puts down his fork. "You don't know." She shakes her hand. “There was an uprising. The War of Five Kings, they call it. Renly meant to take the Iron Throne with his bride’s men from Highgarden. He died.”

His last word hangs in the air. Her gaze falls to the table, trying to understand. Renly was only a boy when he came, barely a man, but that was a long time ago. How could he join a war? The last King she heard of sitting on the throne was Robert, after Aerys was killed. Why would he go against his brother?

Jaime mutters something about Robert dying, about Renly's older brother and blood magic, about the throne, but she doesn't hear any of it. All she hears is  _ dead _ .

The last thing she sees is Renly, standing in his gold-and-green armor, looking so handsome and gallant, and a sword cutting through his heart. Jaime brings her out of the fog.

"Did you know him?" He asks, his voice so thin. His eyes are uncertain, something of pity in them.

_He feels sorry for me._ She's been holding the table so hard her knuckles have turned white. She releases it and takes a breath. “Not very well. He came here once, before I was cursed.”

The boy who showed her every courtesy, who treated her like she was a proper maid, and pretty. She remembers crying to her Father after Ronnet and his rose.  _ They will know,  _ she said,  _ they will laugh at me. _ Lord Selwyn the Evenstar did not relent, however. Renly bowed and offered his hand to her, asking if she would dance with him, and in his arms she felt graceful as they floated across the floor. When the dance was done, he thanked her and kissed her hand, and as she danced with others who begged to be her partners, she couldn't look away from him. That boy became a man and he died in a puddle of blood.

Jaime nods and gets up. He looks around the room, fumbling with the fingers of his flesh hand. He thanks her for dinner and bids her goodnight. She wishes him the same.

Then she's alone. The water spirits took the table and dirty dishes away. She stands up, groaning, but the pain has become obscured because of the nectar. She stumbles to her dresser and drops to her knees.

Her nails scrape at the corner before finding a good spot and she lifts the wooden surface that hides the bottom. She takes the old box out, a pretty thing, cream-colored with golden ornaments, a gift for one of her namedays. She lies it at her feet and takes the lid off.

Her beautiful dress. It must be too short by twenty inches now. Her fingers trace the dark blue silk, the silver stars embroidered into it. It would have been much better on a prettier girl, one smaller and less broad, with long curly hair. Her Septa would have given it away, but she wanted to keep it.

Tears fill her eyes as she spreads it on her knees. She has never been so happy as she was on that day with Renly. The only man who was kind to her, murdered by some magic. Every time she trained with Ser Goodwin, she liked to think that maybe once she's old enough, she could join Renly's knights. Live in his household. Her Father would have been proud, to have his daughter close to the King's brother. 

But the curse ended all of her mindless dreamings. The tears flow well on her face now, holding the little dress to her chest. She wishes she could be as small as it again and she thinks,  _ I should have been there with him. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you!
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](https://ikknowplaces.tumblr.com)


	5. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brienne comes to terms with how she feels about jaime after almost a month

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S THREE AM IN THE MORNING. sorry it took my literally 20 days to update. i was busy making other fics and the last 8k chapter really drained my energy. also- i'm gonna be honest with you guys? i would really appreciate more comments. i'm really grateful for every hit, kudos or bookmark, but comments let me know what you thought about this chapter. they let me see each person who enjoyed my work individually, and it gives me motivation to continue. so please comment 
> 
> anyway, there is lot going on with this chapter. it's the first and only one that is solely from brienne's pov, because we've been talking about jaime for a while, but it was important for me to show how brienne deals with her emotions, and she really conforts everything that has happened until now. it was joy to write
> 
> this is it, guys. the next chapter is the last one. i'm gonna cry
> 
> i hope you like this!

Brienne wakes up to strong sunlight and birds singing out of her window. Her eyes hurt as she pushes herself onto her elbows, wrapped in the blue sheets. She clears the remains of sleep, her mind clouded. 

It takes her a moment to understand the hour is late, much later than any morning she rouses on. She stopped crying at the foot of her dresser last night, pressing her little dress to her chest, but a few tears escaped down her face as she lied beneath the covers, soaking her pillow. _ Shit. _ Breakfast could be done already, without her to prepare it, and Jaime-

He could be waiting for her at the Great Hall, wondering where she is. She lets the panic overtake her only for a moment, before throws the covers away and rises from the bed.

Her cut hurts when she stands, but it's dull compared to the bleeding ache she felt yesterday, tearing her flesh apart. The stitches are cold and tight on her thigh, a foreign object on her skin as she enters her side chamber to wash her face and rinse her mouth with lemon and mint water. A wave of the feeling of Jaime's calloused fingers on her thigh hits her, the way her leg was draped over his lap, how he carefully completed each stitch. She splashed her face with cold water. 

She flings the drapes open, letting the sun fill her old chamber, her featherbed and the dolls she and Galladon used to play with. She dons a grey tunic and loose dark blue breeches. Her sword is pinned to the wall by the door, clean from the blood Jaime said he saw on it. The silver metal flashes in the light, reminding her of yesterday.

She crosses the corridor leading to the balcony overlooking the Great Hall. Jaime's chamber is just to the other side, and he is there, she finds out as she looks down from the balcony. His curls turn more golden in the sunlight, and he's wearing red and black, so like his House colors. 

He whips his head to her when she steps down the staircase and rises from his seat. "Good morning," he says, a rush in his voice.

"Good morning," she smiles, a nervous thing, and takes her seat next to him. "Sorry I'm late."

She hates crying before bed, more than another futile argue with her Father, more than after a day of sparring with Ser Goodwin when she returned to her chamber full of blue bruises and aching muscles. Her sleep last night was a heavy thing that only burdened her more than eased her, but it all fades away with Jaime's face.

Breakfast today is eggs, bacon and red beans on top of a hill of rice. There are two pitchers, one full of nectar and the other with water. "It's alright," he says, and before she can protest, pours nectar into her goblet. Blush creeps up her throat, and she curses herself for it. 

They dine in silence, a thing she has long forgotten about, though they have been speaking for only two days now. There is no room for silence now, and it scares her that it occurs now. 

She can also tell there is something on Jaime's mind, just from the way he's chewing on his food and staring at his plate. Something in his eyes is different, in the way he's sitting. She remembers her hard grip on the table last night, his quiet voice and little nod as he bid her goodnight. He must know. She's about to ask when he speaks. "I apologize about last night, about Renly. You seemed... upset."

She sighs. She has lost count of the number of times they apologized to each other in the last couple of days. His intentions are good, however, and she mustn't return his kindness with impatience. "You didn't upset me, it's just that..." she trails off and sets her fork aside. She doesn't want to bring her past to life, to feel the painful memories flood her again, but she feels like she owns him an explanation. In that bath, he bared a part of himself to her, trusted her blindly, and she should too. Trust him with no doubt.

"Before I was cursed, I had a Septa. Her name was Roelle. She could still be alive, I don't know. My Father had me betrothed to a man, six years my senior, surly to be a great knight in the future. I was so happy," bitterness sinks into her voice as she reminisces the moment her Father told her about Ronnet, how she promised to be as gracious and courtly as she could, and how it all crushed down later. The road to Renly is a long one. "Then my Septa opened my eyes. She told me I would find my answer in the looking-glass, and I realized I was the ugliest girl alive, and that my husband to be had no interest in me, but in Tarth."

Jaime drops his spoon, and his jaw as well. His green eyes are wide and she thinks he must be stunned because of all the hard fact she's releasing on him, without a warning, while they break their fast. He struggles for an answer. "You're not-"

"Ugly? Jaime, please." She knows what she looks like, taller than all the other girls, taller by an inch or two than the other men, broad-shouldered and freckles covering her face. Her Septa made her see those flaws before she was a woman grown, countless people after, and she can never shut her eyes again. "Thank you for the attempt, but you can never understand."

His brow furrows and for the first time, he seems like he was in the crater, when he crashed. Angry, his eyes sparkling. She knows it too well, when someone insists on telling her how she feels. "What makes you think I can't?" He asks.

She only hears the words when they escape from her mouth. "Because you're beautiful."

He stiffens, and so does she, and she glances away. He must know this, this Lion of Lannister. Even the men who were washed to Tarth, knowing it was Tywin who cursed her, talked about how handsome he is. Knighted at fifteen, youngest Kingsguard to serve, killed his King, hair as bright as gold, most fearsome swordfighter the realm has ever known in centuries. At the time, she thought they were all exaggerating, but they were all right. 

This silence is worse than the one from before, and she doesn't allow it to last long. "When Ronnet Connington entered my Father's hall, he took one look at me and tossed a rose at my face. He said that was all I would have of him."

Weeks afterward, she spent every waking hour of the day recalling Ronnet's grimace, the sheer disgust in his face as he strode to the center of the Great Hall to find her standing eye to eye in front of him. The venom in his voice burnt her skin, burnt her eyes, and she could still feel the rose hitting her bodice. She thought she would never stop picturing it, but the years melted it all away.

"What did your Father do?" He scoops the spoon into his mouth, and she takes a bit ss well.

"Nothing," she says and swallows. The frow in Jaime's brows deepens, his eyes gleaming again, and she cuts him off before he can make a reply. "There was nothing he could have done besides comforting me. His pride was already wounded enough."

It hurts to think of her failure, of how if she could only greet Ronnet properly, if she could be shorter and more pretty, their meeting at the Great Hall could have been a success, and she wouldn't have humiliated her Father so much. But she did, and at the time, as she cried in her bedchamber, clinging to the floor, she wanted her Father to be mad, wanted him to scowl the young knight and his House. Her Father always respected peace more than war, however, and remained silent.

"And Renly?" He asks.

The food on her plate is gone. The nectar fills her mouth with sweetness. "Renly came shortly after, in his coming-of-age tour. I begged my Father not to come," the image of her kneeling at her Father's chair is still burnt at her mind, saying that they will know about the rose, that they will laugh at her. "Renly treated me like any other girl. I never liked dancing, but I danced with him."

The memory brings a smile to her face, how Renly bowed in front of her and kissed her hand. They swayed across the Great Hall's floor, and she laughed in his arms. She doesn't mention that if she knew he was raising his bannermen, and if it wasn't for the curse, she would have joined him in a heartbeat.

"I'm sorry he died," Jaime says, a hollow thing, considered how flat his tone was when he spoke of how he died last night.

"Me too."

With breakfast done, she gathers her plate and empty cup into her hands. Jaime follows her after a pause, and she thinks servants must have been clearing his dishes since he was a child. The servants of Evenfall used to do the same thing for her, but not anymore, now that she is alone. 

She crosses the Hall and descends down a few steps to the kitchens, with Jaime at her heels. She wants to tell him that it's fine, that she can take care of the dirty dishes herself, but he insists on following her and, if she's being honest, there's not much he can do by himself anyway.

They enter the kitchens; two chambers joined together below the ground. She tries not to think Jaime must be thinking how small and disappointing these kitchens are compared to the ones he knows in King's Landing, in the Red Keep. He lingers behind her, that puzzled look on his face as she turns the faucet on, like he has never seen water running. 

She begins to scrub one of the plates, and he notices the clean towel folded beside the sink and takes it, drying off after she washed the dishes with soap, and the water spirits carry them to their rightful place. A thought crosses her mind that she didn't ask for his help, but he gave it anyway.

"You really shouldn't think too badly of my Father," she glances at him and picks up their conversation. His stubble is gone now, she notices, and pushes another thought down. "He used to let me sit with him in the Great Hall while he had his audience with our people, so I would learn." Those were the days she liked the most. She would sit next to her Father, her legs swinging from a seat as high as his, and listen to her people, even if most of them gave her odd looks. None of them could compare to the proud ones on her Father's face. She isn't sure why she feels the need to justify him, and by that act especially. Maybe because Lords don't offer their daughters a place within power, even if their daughters are their sole heir. "He is a good man, the best I've ever known."

"I know," Jaime nods, a thin little smile on his face. "I saw him, in King's Landing."

She nearly drops the cup from her soap soaked hands. "What?"

"He came to talk with my Father," the smile disappears from his face and he winces, as if the words and too difficult for him to speak. "He was trying to convince my Father not to curse you, I think."

She allows the force of his words to knock the air from her only for a moment. She knew her Father went to King's Landing to try and ease Twyin's punishment on her, saying she's just a foolish girl and that she apologizes for her misbehavior, even if it wasn't true, but she had no idea Jaime saw him, met him. 

He was probably sparring at the time, or walking through the Red Keep, or entering the Great Hall, or leaving his one of his Father's chambers. Then he saw her Father, a lord he has never heard of from an island too low to be talked about, and went on with his day. All without realizing who she really was.

She takes a look at him as he wipes the cup, this man inside her castle, this friend. She isn't sure if she can call him her friend, though. They shared secrets they never did with anyone, but she contemplates on the definition of their relationship. Jaime seems to enjoy her company, she does too, but she wonders- what if it's only out of necessity? Would Jaime approach her, treat her with the same kindness as he does if they met somewhere else, if he wasn't trapped here with her? Would he still spar with her and pour nectar into her cup? Would he tell her about Aerys?

Would he still be her friend?

They meet at supper again. As much as she wanted to spar again, feel her blood singing and answer Jaime's harsh blows with strikes of her own, walking is still painful for her, let alone sparring. She skipped her usual tending of the garden after their breakfast, to lie down and let her leg rest, but in truth, she wouldn't have been able to focus on her crops with so many thoughts running in her head, making her spin.

He puts down his goblet after a sip of nectar and her eyes drift to the cut she gave him, only line now, a shade darker than his skin. "Your cut looks better," she reaches over and traces it, her fingers brushing his hairline. "It should be healed completely tomorrow."

His muscles tense under her touch, but his eyes quickly fixate on her, a small smile on his lips. His flesh hand is spread on his leg, the golden one on the table. "And how are you?"

She can barely feel anything but the tickling sensation on her fingertips. "Better."

Four days pass. Four days since they broke their silence at the bathhouse, four days since his confession about Aerys and the first supper they shared. They share every meal in the Great Hall. She sits on her usual place, her back to Evenfall's doors, Jaime to her left. Their conversations are lighter, no longer full of sneers, apologizes or their depressing past. 

Perhaps the most endearing change is that she stopped waiting for him at the table. Instead, she waits for him on the balcony. Some times he gets there before her, and she marvels in the way he leans against the smooth stone. One evening he was waiting at her door. She repaid the gesture at midday. The staircase is just as wide to let both of them pass at the same time, and her cheeks warm up when their shoulders brush and crash together. 

They spar under the midday sun in the courtyard. Jaime reminds her not to cut him again, and she rolls her eyes, but she smiles all the same. Their dance is thrilling and they knock each other to the marble floor, earning new bruises that turn blue and black. In the end, her lack of inconsistence practice overpowers Jaime's clumsiness with his left hand. He complains at supper about how sore he is from the beating she gave him, and she laughs. In the privacy of her bedchamber, she sits on the bed and carefully examines her hands, stretching her fingers, looking for anything that has changed besides the redness in them. The hands that hold her sword and pin him to the ground.

He is frustrated, she can tell, from every blow he misses or how quickly he grows tired and breathless. His instincts are wrong, still rooted in his golden hand, but he refuses to yield, even if she has him on the ground, his sword knocked out of his reach and her blade at his throat.

He is a great swordfighter, she learned in the first time they sparred, but with every session, he keeps surprising her with his skills and light feet, and she finds herself pulling old moves Goodwin taught her, or acting faster than she is used to.

"You're going to have to yield some time," she breathes. They decided to spar on the grass field, a change from the marble floor, and they lie side by side on it. The sun blinds her, sweats rolls down her face and into her hair, her muscles are worn out, but she feels light as air. 

Her breeze is cool on her face and she spreads her arms further apart, letting it blow on her soaked tunic. She doesn't remember the last time she lied on a field like that, so free of fears and thoughts. _ With Galladon, _ she turns her head. Jaime is just out of reach. 

"Never," he shakes his head with that determined grin, his curls plastered to his face. He groans as he rises and grabs her hand, pushing her to her feet. Half a dozen strikes later, they collapse on their knees, laughing, and after a forever in the dark, the tears that streak down her face don't come from sadness.

They bathe after each time. He is courteous and patient enough to let her clean first, but she is tempted to remind him they have bathed before, in the same bath, and that he shouldn't have to wait outside, stuck to his sweat-soaked clothes, since the bathhouse has more than one bath. He can undress on the bath close behind her and lean back until the backs of their heads are touching. Another part of her is glad for the privacy- and the fact she isn't supposed to spend time with a man in a bath. 

She takes him to the highest part of Evenfall. This floor is one she visits the least, with her bedchamber a level lower, the Great Hall under, and the bathhouse and the kitchens even more beneath. It mostly consists of bedchambers, for whenever a noble lord or lady would visit Tarth, and a great balcony facing the northern part of the Sapphire Isle. Galladon used to pick her up the many steps and watch her as she sat between the railings, listening to the sound of waves.

It also consists of the armory chamber. It's a small, round room, with a wooden table in the center. All kinds of weapons hang from the walls: longswords and bastard swords, greatswords that require a two-handed grip to lift, maces with sharp spikes, a single war hammer, two axes, rusty and breaking apart, and half a dozen of shiny daggers.

Jaime holds his breath as they enter the room, and she worries, again, that it might be too modest for his tastes. To her surprise, however, he rushes to touch every piece of steel and metal.

A smile grows on his lips and he gazes at the daggers, forming half a circle. There is something yearning in his eyes as he reaches out and touches the gemstones melded into their hilts, almost as if he can relive a distant memory just by touch.

"They remind me of the White Sword Tower," he turns to her and says, not quite looking at her. "There are swords pinned like that there, too."

"What is that tower?" It must mean a lot to him, if he's so caught up in emotion. His voice reminds her of the way he whispered in the bath. _ I trust you. _ Yet there she is, ignorant of something so important and obvious to him. She curses the world for trapping her again.

"It's where my and my Brothers stay. My Kingsguard Brothers," he steps towards the table, where she stands, and lightly drums on the old wood. 

His Brothers. She doesn't need more words to understand the sadness in his eyes. She might have missed out a war, but she knew about the great one that cost Aerys his throne by Robert Baratheon and his life by Jaime. Some Appleton or a Honeyholt or a Peake had told her the story of the war that ended the Targaryen monarchy, after a millennium. Eddard Stark gathered all the forces in the North and the Vale too, joined Robert's camp and the three smashed the walls of the Red Keep. The King died. His son died fighting. His wife and two children as well, but they do no matter at the moment. Only three names. _ Arthur Dayne, Prince Lewin Martell, Gerold Hightower. They were his Brothers. They were killed. _

Before she can comfort him, he points up, all lights in his eyes. "Why do you have Ser Duncan's shield?" 

Her mourning thoughts drift away from her mind at once and she grins. Ser Duncan's shield is hanged next to a one bearing the Tarth sigil, and it has a great elm tree painted on top of a faded orange sunset. It's the most prized possession in the chamber, perhaps in all Evenfall as well.

She always begged her Father for stories about Ser Duncan, and he never declined her pleading ramblings, telling her about how he took in the young Prince Aegon Targaryen, the Fifth, how he grew from a hedge knight with no money and proper armor to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, how bravely he protected his King in Summerhall. 

She can barely let the words out of her mouth, as they are full of joy. "He is my ancestor."

It takes Jaime a heartbeat of confused staring before the coin drops. "What?!" He yells, so loud she expects one of the swords to clatter to the floor. "How?" 

"A great-great grandsire, perhaps. It's a long way up our family tree," she shrugs and puts her hand on the table. Her Father never specified the details of how they have Ser Duncan's blood, only that they do.

Jaime remembers to close his jaw. "So you are his... descendant?" He looks her up and down, as if seeing her for the first time, lingering on her soft breeches, her short tunic, the blonde hair the falls down her shoulders, and her blue eyes, swaying slightly from side to side.

"I am," her smile changes into a brash smirk. 

Jaime bites his bottom lip, his eyes refusing to let go of her, and bursts into a laugh.

She takes him to her Father's library. If in the armory he jolted immediately like a green boy in his first sparring lesson, he enters the library as if it's a den of monsters. Not lions, she corrects herself. He knows lions to well. She offers him to take a seat by her side, and even that he does with caution.

They find a painted book meant for children with stories about gallant knights that rescue their pretty maidens from towers, bears, evil men, and other sorts of dangers they read when they were young. She watches Jaime as he turns the dusty pages one by one, yelling out when he discovers a story he remembers. 

Turns out he isn't as good with words as he is with a sword. He scoffs at the book she's reading, of red and black, so big she can't catch in between her thumb and her forefinger, and he tells her his Father used to force him to seat with the Maester of Casterly Rock for three hours a day before he could practice with his blunt sword, because the letters kept crossing in his mind, and that his brother inherited the thirst for reading, though he doesn't know from whom. Their uncle Gerion, perhaps, who always gifted Tyrion books and copies of ancient scrolls for his nameday. 

There's a great map of Westeros on one of the walls, its edges torn and old, the ink has faded from all the years, the paper turned yellow. She follows Jaime's eyes to a crook in the east, not so far from Blackwater Bay. King's Landing. Then to the other side, to another torsion that merges with the ocean. Casterly Rock.

"Where is Tarth?" He asks, scanning the map for an island other than the Iron Islands or Dragonstone.

"We're not on the map," she says and Jaime brows furrows. Every valley and current are marked on the map, every seat of a house, as minor as it might be. But not her home. "It's another part of the curse." She remembers walking into the library in the week after Twyin's curse. She didn't want to read, didn't do much in these days besides crying and sleeping, but she wandered to the chamber, gazed up at the world that became out of her reach, and saw her Island was gone. She didn't believe it at first, but she ran and throw open every parchment she could find, and it was true. Her Island was gone from the world. "If we were," she continues, pointing at the space east to Storm's End, above Estermont and Rain House, "We would be there."

Jaime stares at the place her finger leads to, lingering there, as if he's drawing Tarth in his mind. She can see the muscles in his throat tensing as he swallows. His eyes fall to her, his mouth working like he's about to say something. She knows exactly what.

"Don't apologize," she raises her arms. An offended look crossed his face for a moment, and her smile breaks just a little, but it catches quickly on his lips, and they both laugh.

That night, she decides to take him to the garden, and her hands tremble together as they walk down the stone path leading to the archway. He has been there before, only once, but she has never taken him there after the sun has set. She has never taken _ anyone _ there during the dark.

The garden is the only thing she has left of the old way Tarth used to be, besides the castle. Her people are gone, their houses turned to trees, their shops and sidewalks to earth and leaves, but the garden the servants brought fruit, vegetables and spices from remained. It became her haven, where she can be by herself. Evenfall has always reminded her of her many failures, but never the garden.

Her heart beats every time she steps on another stone, the heels of her boots clicking against it. 

"Why do we have to be there before the sun sets?" He asks.

She releases her hands and turns to him "You'll see."

They pass beneath the archway and into the garden. She sits just after the stone path ends and gestures for Jaime to take his place on the grass by her side.

"Close your eyes," she says when settles next to her.

He stares at her, uncomprehending, and she gestures at him with her head, encouraging him to close his eyes. They're so close, and she fights the urge to nudge him with her shoulder. 

He shuts his eyes but creaks one open just as fast. "You're not going to punch me, are you?"

That gets a laugh out of her, given the many tools she has in the cabin she can beat him with, not that she needs any of them. "Just close them."

The only remains of the sun are the orange hue behind the tree line, blending into the darkening sky. A gentle breeze comes, and the clouds drift away to give way for some rising stars. Brienne counts the seconds: one, two, three, and...

Night falls. A single vine twists from the ground, drawing power from the moonlight, and the blue petals open to life, a bright halo around them. Another Nightfall Lilly appears, then another, and another, until her whole garden is full, between rows of flowers and trees, around the little cabin, even to her leg.

"Open them."

He does, and gasps. The turquoise light withdraws some of the darkness away and it reflects on Jaime's bright green eyes. He whips his head to her, but she gives him her most pleased and innocent grin and he stumbles to his feet.

He manages to hold back some of his excitement and steps slowly on every patch of clear glass, careful not to crush any of the Lillies under his feet. Fireflies buzz around him, and to her surprise, he doesn't wave any of them away. 

She watches him as he continues to wander across the garden, as if any flower is different from the other. Anger and isolation have been rooted inside of her for centuries, but after almost a moon with Jaime, she realizes it doesn't have to be this way. The Great Hall can be just the Great Hall, not where Ronnet threw his rose at her. It can be where she shared an audience with her Father, where she and Jaime dine every morning and night, where Renly danced with her. Her bedchamber doesn't have to be where she has cried so many times. It can be where Galladon used to read her stories until she fell asleep, where Jaime stitched her wound. Evenfall doesn't have to be full of sadness. It can just home.

She watches him as he plays with the flowers and she understands she hasn't felt this happy in a long time. Admitting it makes her chest fill with a warm feeling. She was happy when Renly danced with her. She was happy for a short time with Hyle, when they sparred and he let her read from the book he brought with him about noble knights, before he broke and told her about the wager. 

It comes to her that Jaime hasn't gone to the ocean since the bath. When they were unspeaking, she would see him almost every day bursting in and out of the great doors. Now they go together to the courtyard to spar. The realization cools her and she looks away from him, suddenly unable to gaze at his enthusiasm. 

He isn't the Kingslayer anymore, the son of the man who cursed her. He's Jaime, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He has a little brother who loves to read and a sister who flung him from a window and sent him here. He is her friend. Selfishly, she doesn't want him to leave. So of course that he does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you!
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](https://ikknowplaces.tumblr.com/)
> 
> and my new [asoiaf sideblog](https://brienneisle.tumblr.com/)


	6. The Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> on his last day on tarth, brienne takes him to the ocean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm posting at 3am again, with no editing, because i have no self control.
> 
> okay, now seriously. thank you, guys for joining this journey with me. as i said on the first chapter's note, i have never written a fic with multiplate chapters. it's one of my biggest insecurities. i look at people who write this beautiful au's, with so many chapters and i think: i will never be able to do that. i'm just not that good with coming up with ideas.
> 
> i've been writing since i was 14, but i only started writing for braime at the beginning of last month. i only write after really understading a character (hence why i was writing for only one fandom until now), after i really connect with them, so to write an au with six chapters was beyond me. up until last month, i always felt like i couldn't share my writing, especially with the asoiaf fandom, because it wasn't long or good or perfect enough. but this story taught me something. i can just write. so i posted 4 other fics this month, as short as they may be, and it's freeing. i've learned that not everything has to be perfect, that i can just publish what i want
> 
> so thank you, for staying with me throughout this story. thank you for every person who read, left kudos, bookmarked and commented. i never imagined this fic would get so much love as it did, and i'm so grateful for it
> 
> it's the end, but it doesn't have to be, and i'm gonna say some more things in the end notes because- spoilers.
> 
> i hope you'll like this last chapter

On his last day of Tarth, Brienne takes him to the ocean. It's the one and only place they haven't visited since they broke their silence, six nights ago. They have sparred in the courtyard, almost every day, save the day after he cut her. 

She showed him the armory, where he learned she is related to Ser Duncan the Tall, and a sudden urge to kiss her filled him, just so he'd feel what it's like to kiss a descendant of Duncan, or that she will punch him, so he would feel what is like to get beaten by a descendant of Duncan. He has gotten enough bruises from her, though.

She took him to the library. That was less exciting. For once, because he doesn't like reading, and for twice, because he found out his Father wiped Tarth off the map. All the maps in all of Westeros, according to her. That just made his blood boil more. 

The most wonderful thing was her garden at night. It was already beautiful by day, but when she told him to open his eyes, a wave of translucent blue flowers appeared of the dark grass, shining in the moonlight. He looked back at Brienne, who was leaning on her elbows, watching him fuss around like a summer boy, that smile on her face, her eyes just as blue...

And he realized he doesn't wish to leave. Not as much as he used to. When they parted that night, yesterday night, he lied on his bed in this still very strange room and he understood he doesn't miss King's Landing, never have. He got used to it, its stability always on the verge of breaking, the golden walls and enormous halls of the Red Keep, the many Godly people always swarming its corridors, the flaps of silk and velvet, the noise of the smallfolk underneath. He has grown to it, and in Tarth there is only him and Brienne, and the silence still lingers everywhere.

He certainly does not misses Cersei, his Father either less. He doesn't know what he will say to both of them if he comes back. Cersei will ignore his absence of nearly a moon with a smile of  _ "oh Brother, where have you been?" _ as if she hasn't had a hand in launching him into the sky. His argument with his Father will be much worse.  _ Yes, Father, I have been on Tarth, the island you erased from existence, and I learned just how evil you are, from the woman you trapped in here. Also, I'm going to free her, even if it costs me another hand.  _

He hasn't told her that. He hasn't fully decided it with himself, to be honest. She will most likely tell him that people- men - wash over to Tarth, don't seek it. He has deduced by himself that any kind of water transportation that isn't the raft he has heard so much about but hasn't seen will cause him to drown, get lost, or wash over again. He has fought battles with deadlier odds. It's fine.

The only one he truly misses is Tyrion, it dawns on him. His small but big-mouthed little brother with an appetite for books the size of his head and goblets of wine, since he had his first thousand nameday. If Cersei will toss his blessed return with a swift swing of her golden curls, Tyrion will not stop hustling around him, asking where he has been and what's Tarth like and- Oh Gods. He will never leave him once he mentions Brienne. He has been trying to match him ladies that will stick with him- or rather, he with them- for more than one night, completely in denial of the fact that Brothers of the Kingsguard aren't supposed to fall in love or court, the Lord Commander the very least.

It doesn't help to think that Tyrion will love Brienne's sarcastic sense of humor, that they will spend hours in the library of the Red Keep, which is five times bigger than the modest one in Tarth, that they will share meals together and Tyrion will glace at him with that spark in his mismatched eyes that says-  _ She is the one, Brother. _

She isn't, anyway. No one is.

As they cross through Evenfall's courtyard and into the dense line of trees, Jaime realizes he hasn't taken this route since Brienne brought him to the castle, his clothes still burnt and his stomach rumbling. The damp earth is a good change from the stone floors and grass, and even the smell of the air in the forest is different from the smell within Evenfall. The sun is soon lost between the high branches of the lush green trees.

When they emerge from the forest, his heartbeat stops. On purpose or by accident, he doesn't know, Brienne brought them to the exact spot where he crashed. The thick logs he pushed from the edge of the forest are still there, and the cliff is to his left, a minute of walking away.

He glances at Brienne. He thought a grin would appear on her face as soon as the ocean would be in sight, the Sapphire Isle mirrored in her eyes, but her stare towards the deep sea and crashing waves is emotionless. 

"Shall we?" She asks, a small smile on the corner of her lips.

He follows her for a few more steps as she looks for a good spot, though all of the spots are as sandy as the others. She settles for one eventually and throws the checkered blanket of red and blue before she sits on it, her legs crossed. Jaime plumps by her side with the straw basket. He snatched it out of her reach before they departed, lest she insisted he should carry the blanket because it was lighter.

"Could you tell me more about the Kingsguard?" She takes out two plates, goblets, a pitcher of water- the nectar isn't necessary anymore and will only make them dizzy- and a bowl of freshly washed berries. Their eyes meet when he digs out the pie, covered in a little cloth, and he gives her a look that says  _ go on _ . "Is it true there are only seven of you? And that you always wear white?"

Her naive questions make him laugh and he places an already sliced piece of the pie on her plate. "Yes, there are only seven of us, for the seven Gods." Most, if not all of the people of Westeros lay offerings and sing prayers to the Gods in times of hardship. Jaime has never been so devoted to religion, and even if he was, he would never sacrifice anything for his Father. 

The people of Essos, across the Narrow Sea, live with no Gods walking amongst them. They think of the Westerosi foolish and blind, to believe in forms taking flesh, for even a God can be killed. Instead, they believe in the Black Goat and the Many-Faced God, Mother Rhoyne and R'hllor, Gods that have no skin and form.

When he thinks of his Brothers, he thinks of the ones who died on the Trident or outside the Tower of Joy. He thinks of Arthur, who knighted him, of Lewyn Martell, the Prince of Dorne, of Gerold Hightower and Oswell Whent, twice his size and thrice his age. Those are his Brothers, from the day Aerys draped the white cloak over his shoulders and to his last day. Never Meryn or Boros, never.

"I only wear white when I'm on duty." Thankfully his Brothers, as vicious as they might be, have a brain inside their skulls instead of air, and some days he leaves tasks for them to take care of.

"And the White Room?" She brings a piece of the pie to her mouth and closes her eyes, savoring the taste.

"Is as it sounds," he takes a bite as well and- damn, _ it is good.  _ Rich and warm and sweet. "The Book of the Brothers is there. It records every Brother who served since Aegon the Conquerer."

"Even Ser Duncan?" Her eyes light up and she takes a ship of the water.

"And many others," he can't help but smile as he reaches for his goblet.

Brienne clutches her cup with both of her hands, her fingers brushing against the glass. "I would like to see that someday," her voice brittles.

Jaime gazes at the wind blowing on her pale hair, the waves behind them as stunning as her eyes.  _ Me too. _

They abandon the picnic in favor of a walk around the shore. Jaime spent so much time in Evenfall he has forgotten how the waves sound like. Seashells drift in the water, crystalized, the sun penetrating through them. 

"Is the Red Keep close to the ocean?" Brienne asks by his side, the wind whirling on her clothes and by rights, her arm should be in the crook of his elbow.

"Yes," though it is inches shy from the clouds and the ocean can be no more than a blue dot from the most upper floors. "My sister and I used to go swimming when we were young. I used to jump from Casterly Rock into the water." Though it cannot compare to the Sapphire Isle the slightest.

A faint smile rises on her face, but it falls just as quick. "I don't like the ocean as much as I used to," she stares at her feet, as if to find an answer in the froth. "My brother Galladon drowned when he was eight. I was four." 

He recalls the painting in her Father's solar. If the younger girl with the freckles is Brienne, the boy must be Galladon. It's no surprise she refused to such insulting betrothals, even if to break her curse. She's her Father's sole heir. "I'm sorry," he says and before she can brush it off, "I am, truly."

"Thank you," she grips his arm and slides her hand away, because they starting touching as well as laughing, pushing each other to their feet after they sparred. 

She gazes ahead, a more pleased look on her face, and a question comes to his mind. "If you don't like the ocean, why did you come here, the day I crashed?"

Her brow furrows as she considers his question. "I don't know. I just felt like visiting it today."

He doesn't know what if would have done, if he woke up alone, with no girl his Father cursed to scream at him and show him the cliff where he must wish for the raft. "Can you imagine if I showed up in Evenfall?" He laughs thinking of Brienne opening up the doors to him, a Lannister in burnt clothes, covered in sand and ashes.

"I think I would have kicked you down the steps," she glances between him and the ground, afraid her reply might insult him, but he only laughs louder, and she joins him.

He's a few steps preceding her when she swings her head around and stops in her tracks, boots buried in the sand. Foam splashes on her ankles, but she doesn't seem to notice. Then her voice comes, as thin as the ocean breeze, and tremulous. " _ The raft _ ." 

She whips to him, terror masking her face, and he doesn't catch the grave meaning of her words until he glances over her shoulder to the cliff they climbed together nearly a moon ago. The raft is beneath it, standing, waiting, raising with the waves. The raft he asked for. The raft that will take him home.

His eyes fall on Brienne. Every ounce of color has been drained from her face, leaving her eyes clear, two pits of blue. She takes one slow breath that ripples through her body, steeling her, and he wants to tell her-  _ something _ . That he's sorry, that he doesn't want to leave, that he likes her. That he's grateful for every drop of kindness she has given him for the past sennight. But the words die at his throat. 

She finds her own faster than him. "We need to go," her eyes drift towards the sand, and she reaches for his arm, and he doesn't know if it's to stable herself, or him. 

They run towards the forest. The way they return to Evenfall is the same way they took when leaving the castle, but their leisure walk full of light chatting has turned into a run now. He follows Brienne as she passes yards of ground, made hard by crushed leaf litters, decomposing stems and soaked soil. He leaps above a fallen log, stomps on some overgrown stray weeds, wets his breeches' cuffs inside a small puddle, then they hit the clearing, Evenfall looming over.

Brienne doesn't look back at him. Instead, she gallops the steps leading to the entrance. His heart beats every time his heels meet the polished stone. The great doors open, with a rambling crack, like thunder ripping through the Stormland's sky. 

They stand breathless at the doors. Brienne's hand is clutching the wooden frame, her head down as she swallows as much air as she can, and he finds himself staring ahead, gazing at the Great Hall's old walls as if for the first time. He takes every crack in the walls, every brick pushed together, her Father's seat, the banners above it, the torches and candles chandelier that were lit in their first supper. Their table is gone now, since they broke their fast on the ocean.  _ He doesn't want to leave. _

"Your chamber," Brienne wheezes and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, straightening herself. Before he can say anything, she rushes to the end of the Hall and disappears, the stairway taking her to the level below.  _ To the kitchens. _

He sobers and heads to his bedchamber. His fingers trace the balcony as he turns for the corridor, where they have begun a routine of waiting for each other. Brienne seems to have a magical clock built in her mind of when exactly supper would be ready, but once he managed to get there before her, if only to watch her as she emerged for her bedchamber on the other side of the castle, her scent full of soap and flowers after the bath. He can feel the soft carpet underneath his feet, green and red and blue, and he can't help but think,  _ I will never see it again. _

He closes his door behind him, clueless. Sunlight shines through his slit of a window, illuminating dust particles fluttering through the air. His bed is made, the privy's door closed.

He has imagined his scenario many times, every night when he lied on his foreign bed, knowing Brienne is on the other side of the castle, wanting him gone. He  _ wished _ for it, wished for the damn raft to come and take him from this girl who hated him. Now it has come, and he doesn't know what he should take with him. He doesn't even know how long the voyage will be. 

He stays with the clothes already on his person, grabs his sword from the peg on the wall, and straps it to his waist. 

Brienne waits for him at the Great Hall. "I've brought you some food," she begins to walk as soon as he's by her side. "and nectar, should you need it. And a surcoat, if it gets cold," she lifts the cloth to him, black and made out of soft wool.

"Thank you," he says, and she just nods, staring ahead, and worries at her lips.

The coast he was so happy to walk down with Brienne is the last thing he wants to see right now. The raft is still there, much to his dismay, waiting for the one who called for it. Brienne still seems to hold her tongue from him, something he knows very well, going away inside, and strides towards the drifting waves. He has no choice but to tread behind her.

As he inches closer, the raft becomes clearer, and he realizes it isn't a raft at all, but rather a small galley, with two sails and a set of oars, narrow enough that if he lies down, his arms will squeeze between the wooden hulls. Brienne secures the bag of food under an opening in the deck and climbs on the thin board, adjusting the sails and strengthening some of the knots he doesn't know what their purpose is. 

He watches her, her quick work. It doesn't take many wits to recognize Brienne as she is, shy, prone to blush, with occasional scoffs and a lot of respect for herself, despite what the world has done to her. But as he watches her on the galley, she almost looks free. Happy. As she always is when they spar. She probably learned how to manage greater oars and sail before she sat a horse.

She jumps, water spraying all over, gentle soft foam breaking under her feet, and she circles him until he stands between her and the galley. All of her unwavering calmness seems to shatter as soon as she hits the ground, and she lifts her eyes to him, something shaking in them. He wants to break it, to replace it with the way she shook as they laughed in the courtyard. 

"Jaime, I..." She begins, but he grabs her hand and pushes her closer.

He can hear her surprise when their bodies collide and he wraps his arms around her back. For one terrifying moment, she remains frozen, but he feels her hands slowly creeping up his back as well, holding him there. She is warm and soft, so different from what he has seen so far, and he closes his eyes, taking in her scent of flowers and salt after he buries his face in her shoulder.

She pulls from him, her hands sliding from his shoulder blades, to his arms, to his wrists, and to his hands. Tears glisten in her eyes as she stares at him, both uncertain of what is there to say. He gazes down at the air where their hands are held together, flesh and golden alike, the hands that turned him to the ocean on the cliff after he crashed, the hands that held the sword that blocked his swings and answered back just as fiercely. Freckled and long. 

He takes one and brings it to his lips, kissing her knuckles, his thumb rubbing on the inside of her palm. "Goodbye, Brienne," he says, and it hurts more than he expected it to be.

A shaking breath escapes from her, her eyes wide that he kissed her, and she cups his cheek, almost too harshly, as if the courage will flee from her if she waits another second. Then she leans over and kisses his other cheek, so gently he can barely feel her. "Goodbye, Jaime," she whispers.

The feeling of her lips on his skin sets something off within him, stronger than his fire, stronger than Aerys' wildfire. He remembers his promise from before.  _ Even if it costs me another hand. _ "I will come back for you," he says, out loud this time.  _ Be damned my Father and this world. He can strike me down this instant if he wishes. _ All he cares at this moment is this girl of Tarth. "I swear it on the Trident."

Brienne's eyes go wide, faster than he can understand, then tears spill free from them, and she turns away from him, sobbing. 

"No, Brienne, don't cry," he reaches for her shoulders, slumped and stirring, her crying muffled under her hand. He has never seen her cry before. He spins her around nevertheless.

Her sapphire eyes seem to be burning, as the rest of her face, and he thinks he has never seen her looking so small, either. It's far worse than seeing her angry, and after seven nights of sharing her meals and hearing her laughter, he wishes he could take her pain away. "You can't- you just swore..." she manages to get between chocked breaths.

"On the Trident, and I mean it," he wipes each tear that stream down her face and only then she begins to settle down. She nods, still trapped in his hands, and pushes him into another quick hug.

The Trident is one of the biggest rivers in Westeros, stretching across the Riverlands from Maidenpool to the Twins and even through Riverrun itself. It has been cursed since the men first set foot in Westeros, its water treacherous and its fish poisonous, so fisherfolk sell their goods and move their man and fish their food in other tributaries. It has only become more cursed when Robert Baratheon slew the last Targaryen Prince and his blood dripped into the dark water, before seizing his Father's throne. Some of the smallfolk started to believe the river will cease to be cursed after a Targaryen sits on the throne again, and the Riverlands will be free of war at last. Those who swear on it and leave their oath unfulfilled will spend the rest of their entirety drowning in the underworld river of the Tartarus. Jaime intends to fulfill this promise, whether it will spare him of a lifetime of endless suffering or not.

When she releases him again, he turns for the raft right away, fearing another second of looking into Brienne's eyes will cause him to run back to Evenfall, or kiss her, or burst into tears. He jumps on the deck, his legs unsteady and weak, and the galley takes off as soon as he's settled, not allowing him even the chance to set sail on his own.

He turns to Brienne. He thinks he should memorize her, how she stands on the shore, the waves stealing to her feet, her tunic blue with golden suns embroidered on the collar, the wind setting her pale hair aside, her hands clasped together on her chest, but he finds out he doesn't wish to remember her like this. He wants to remember her as she was when she stood over him in the pit, her cheeks flushed with anger. He wants to remember how she kneeled by his side at the bathhouse, listening as he told her about Aerys. He wants to remember how he stood at the balcony and watched her swing her leg back and forth at the table, and how much daylight suited her. He wants to remember every single time he made her smile and how it filled him with pride.

He raises his hand to her, the golden one, and she returns the gesture, from far away. He watches her as the current takes him, until she grows smaller and smaller, the forest blurs, Evenfall disappears, and the fog surrounds him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you really think i can leave these two, uncanon, like this? i physically can't. i really can't. i almost made jaime kiss her like 3 times in this chapter. which is why, while still writing this, i decided to write part two, maybe. it's called oaths, and the first chapter starts with jaime coming back for brienne. i've already written down ideas for at least 7 chapters, so let me know if you if it's something you would like to see? and what you think should happen there? (i'm always open for ideas)
> 
> thank you for reading, as always
> 
> my [tumblr](https://ikknowplaces.tumblr.com/)
> 
> my [asoiaf sideblog](https://brienneisle.tumblr.com/)


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